Am I turning you on?
My life feels stalled, but this period of trail-blazing was supposed to project me rapidly beyond the doldrums of blue-collar youth. In my free time I act like a socialite, just in case someone accuses me of waiting for life to happen. Hey, if you can't find "life" in New York, then there ain't none.
The stories must be told, though, like of how I reclined against the balcony of the Great Hall at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, sipping shiraz and musing against the back-ground noise of a string quartet. I knew that no one but myself was aware of my selected post, yet I still felt like it was done for someone else's benefit.
Hours spent writing causes phrases like, "I would love to do that; it would make a great story," to become frequent. Making me feel -- upon reflection -- that half (or 80%) of the things I do are for the effect of telling the tale, and not for my genuine pleasure at all. Of what life do I dream for myslef? The thought came suddenly, that perhaps I do not enjoy living the life of album-covers and screenplays. I look at things as though mine were the vicarious eyes of my loved-ones. I have stopped looking for the joy I might achieve, but because, "Oh, wouldn't Maggie love that." The crowds love my emails and phone calls, postcards and visits, but these are only my words describing my fiends' interests.
The concept of having lived my mature life as a response to my chosen counter-culture-friends is overwhelming. My head is spinning, and it isn't the shiraz. I feel downcast and sparse. Like a poorly-woven shawl, that neither covers nor protects, which is draped over a lovely woolen coat. I have been removed from the coat and held up to the light, and with an intense blast of cold I have noticed my inability to stand alone. Wincing at the pain with which the obvious always strikes, I have devised a shoddy plan.
The fact remains that I am in New York, and will be for still some time. A coinciding fact is that I am alone. The plan, at its inception, consists only of this: I need to discover the things that I love. With no regard to others. With no consideration of the play-back. What truns me on? My list is small: linguistics, Chopin, Alfonse Mucha, tequila... and I stall.
My life feels stalled. I have felt stalled for years, though. As if nowhere on earth would feel like home, but that my whole life is in anticipatioin of arriving at home. My heart tells me that being in school would be good. It would be focussed and promotioinal. In the mean time (that cruel, mean time) I will embark on this project of finding whatever personality it is that I find innate within myself. I feel confused, and injured that I have to become accountable to my realization (plenty of people never become aware of their dependence on other's opinions), and as transcendental as this sounds, and as solo as I have to go, I can't help but think that this will make a great story.
