Identity

I'm not going to get into why I've been pondering identity over the past few days. Those involved in any of it are probably already having a snide laugh, thinking that they've inspired me, or fooled me, or god knows what else.

Everyone has multiple identities, and that's a simple fact. The whole best foot forward, meeting the parents, interview, wearing the dry clean only clothes version of you is a pretty different identity than the version where you're sitting on the couch, wearing the same underwear for three days, watching trashy tv, in the middle of what starts to look like an odd concentration camp for alcohol.

Yeah, deep down it's the same person. Sure. Not arguing there. But there are different parts to any person. Picture it how you want... devil on one shoulder, angel on the other. Id, ego, and superego. Whatever. Point is, everyone knows that there are these component parts that make us up, but nobody likes to think that they might have to deal with anyone else's parts.

Some people who know me will only know one aspect, and that's how I want to keep it. Maybe they know my political work, or my writing, or my health problems, or my sick sense of humour, or my work pimping art, or something else. Maybe they knew me when I was 17, maybe when I was 25. All of those bits come together to form who I am now, but it's only natural to protect yourself against anyone knowing everything.

If somebody else knew everything about me, that might just mean that I'd have to accept all those parts of me. I'd have to get to know myself.

So I don't want you to know everything about me (yet here I am writing all sorts of crap that's stumbling around in my head), but I get a bit offended when you don't tell me everything about you (see previous post about wanting to know you more than you know yourself, etc.). Guess what... we all do it.

I've come to the conclusion that I'm happier with people who openly hide themselves. Don't want me to know who you are? Fine. But don't make a game out of it. You can keep your secrets, and I'll keep mine. We can interact with those secrets tucked under our arms, hoisted in hobo sacks over our shoulders. The parts that we're happy to have public can be friends for what they have in common, not for what's dangling in that tatty hankie at the end of that stick.

So I'm ok with this. Now I just need to convince everyone else to be, too. I find that if you don't prod and pick the scabs of conversations, people tell you the most unexpected things. For most of my friends, the defining moments of confession and conversation came when the pretenses were dropped and that little glimmer of humanity came through. Maybe it dropped out of a hole in the hankie.

We all have things we want to keep hidden, and we all lie to each other and ourselves. There's no point in wasting time worrying about what lies might be out there.

Burnt

The sun fills me with anxiety.

Every year, around this time, we get a few sunny days that remind us that there's something out there other than gloom and cold. Of course, this is the weather I grew up with... SoCal, drought, blah blah all that crap I always talk about. So it's this weird sense of being a child again.

The sun is nice and all, except for my tendency to crisp up like a human slab of bacon. My problem is that it forces me to think about so many fucking things. Where I've come, what I've done. How am I different from that little kid running around North Long Beach, thrilled with her giant as fuck cassette Walkman?

I'm not.

My anxieties are different these days... dissertations, writing, money, other seemingly 'grown up' things. But the base of it is the same. How will I know if I'm actually happy?

Maybe that links back to all my brain fuzziness, the chemical imbalances, the abuse I've ladled on top of those. Or maybe, just maybe, that's fundamentally me. Maybe I'm just an unhappy person.

This isn't to say I don't enjoy myself, or like my life. I just always want... more. Better. The Best. It pushes me forward in ways others don't seem to be pushed. What I have isn't ever good enough, so I'm always fighting for more. That's behind my drive to get a fucking PhD for, really, no reason other than that I want one.

But it also causes these moments, where I can feel my skin burning, and want to run away from everything because nothing is good enough yet. Because I'm not good enough. These are the moments, sitting in the late Spring sun, that I become destructive.

Spring is the time for rebirth, according to all those legends. I'm sure we've all seen some Joseph Campbell shit about it. Late spring is my time. It's the time where I cast off coats, and reassess. It's the time where I tell the world to fuck off and make way for me.

It's a time of false bravado. It's a time of utter, crippling fear. I don't like change. It scares me more than most things. But... here it is. It's sunny and I'm thinking of ways to make it better. Ways to push things forward. Ways to be the fucking best.

Blocks

I think most of the time my writer's block is self-imposed. It's not a lack of things to write, or desire to write them, or even ability to write. It's fear of what will happen once I put that writing out into the world.

Words are so easily misinterpreted. It's a great bit of ass-covering if you're a lit student... there is no wrong answer blah blah blah. But if you're the writer, trying to field questions from people you know, or people who think they know you... it's a bitch.

Whenever I've put myself fully into writing, it's always been the same... People mutter, look at me sideways, then slowly creep up with queries and concerns. Do I really feel that way? It'll be ok. When did that happen? Is there anything they can do to help?

What people can do to help is to accept that writing is writing. Yes, there are some reflections of me in there, but it's like a funhouse mirror version of me. On one page, I might have a big head, while on another I have elephantiasis-infested cankles. It's me, but it's not.

So what do I do? How the fuck can I get over this block? It's self-imposed, but not. Maybe this is why so many authors are faceless hermits. Maybe Pynchon and Salinger got it right.

But that's the deep dark secret behind it all... I don't want to be faceless in this. Writing is all I have to get attention, and I want that attention. I don't want it in the form of pseudo-concern about my welfare and whether this that or t'other was true. I want praise. I want pats on the head and people loving me for my talent.

I want the same affirmation of my talent that I've wanted since I was a kid. The same damn drive that has given me ulcers and mental breakdowns, trying to be the best, being the best, thinking the best isn't enough. I don't know whether all that genius kid bullshit caused it, or whether it's just part of the mentality that we bring to the genius kid stuff. Either way, I'm an overachiever and a show-off. I do things well and I damn well want some recognition for it.

But... there's the sad little person behind all that. I can talk the big talk about genius and rewards. Under it all, though, is the crippling fear of not being good enough, and of having all of this crap be absolutely meaningless. It's a deep, dark fear that all the pain and suffering was just pain and suffering. It's such a fear, I can't even think of it in passing without being stopped, the wind knocked out of me, tears coming to my eyes.

I'm scared.

Calendar

Saturday 23 May - Bristol - Calm Air All Ice @ Room 212 (closing party) then drinks
Monday 25 May - Bristol - Drinks and fun with Americans and a few Brits
Wednesday 27 May - Arts Festival promotion meeting
Friday 29 May - Deadline for Royal Academy decisions
Tuesday 2 June - End of Weapon of Choice group show
Saturday 6 June - Bristol - Upfest
Sunday 7 June - Bristol - Upfest
Monday 8 June - Arts Festival meeting
Tuesday 9 June - Bristol - Weapon of Choice @ Mr Wolfs
Wednesday 10 June - London - Roehampton Postgraduate Conference

So... Not sure how many of the above I'll be doing, especially the week after Upfest (other than the conference).

I also have a few deadlines in the next few weeks: writing, brochure design, and getting the presentation ready for the conference.

Going to be fun, though.

Back again

I was about to start writing a Facebook note and then thought 'Fuck it, I'll write on that blog thing I've ignored for months.' So here goes...

I want to write, but can't get my brain in order enough to do actual work (whether thesis chapters or grant applications). I think I'm just going to throw down a bunch of random shit that needs to be recorded before the memories get squashed by future alcohol consumption.

Friday. London.

• Scene 6 porn revelations.
• Creeped out by staring fish.
• Asshole at LGC who kept yoinking the Montana Gold colour rings when I was still figuring out which numbers we needed, then asking for 'a dark grey'.

Saturday. Bristol.

• Kids asking for cans, one picking up a crushed cap.
• Kneepads, coveralls, wet floor signs.
• Contortions to fight the power of the wind.
• Cunt of a cabbie.
• Sitting at The Bell, Adam with one sock off, realising maybe people were out back.
• Peanut wars, and Cheba chewing his pint.
• Finding out that Cheba can eat a Snickers in two bites.
• Damn good cashews.
• Two San Miguels, two ciders, and a Gold.
• Downing Rory's wine in one after he seemed to disappear.
• Finding it difficult to pee when all you can hear is Jer's voice.
• Sock on a heater.
• 'Jer just bought me a drink. It would be rude to leave now.'
• 'He kept the Rolex. Ok, fine. I was the one who had the affair, but still...'
• The reason why I'm the only one allowed to have a pen.
• Or cans of paint...
• Cider! the canvas! and the Mclevey purple elephant looking thing.
• Finding out Jer's full legal name, and then forgetting part of it.
• Adam's hand retaining the pint glass grip after Jer had removed the pint glass.

Sunday. Bristol. Weston.

• A shopping cart full of booze, pizza, and a chicken.
• Shuffling everything upstairs and spraying Febreze to get rid of the smoke smell we brought with us.
• Staying drunk rather than getting drunk again.

So there we go. A mind dump for all to enjoy.