Today I’m thinking about censorship. Not because of the Superbowl, though really I was hoping Prince would wear my all-time favorite stage outfit of his (the yellow buttless pants and matching headwrap) but more like the sanitation we all go through to act appropriately and to spare feelings at the cost of hiding our own.
I’m not that great at it, clearly. I swear and I cringe because I know it’s vulgar and unbecoming to a girl. At work I can’t laugh too loud. At home when guests come over, I scurry to peel off yoga pants and look more presentable. It’s not that as I am I am a crude, slovenly, mess…or is it? And if I am, am I doing the world a disservice by such posturing--that I am a put-together creature of this city instead of an incompetent child? Or is it that I improve myself by the act of pretending, in the effort that one day I will really attain such goals?
There’s too much there to wrap our heads around right now, maybe.
And then there’s the worst kind of censorship that I can partake in, right here on this very site. My friends have fake names, my feelings are fine until they hurt someone. My diary is less than that really, because my name is shrouded. I used to think I wanted to be famous, now I just want to be.
A friend gave some intrepid advice about the words you’re reading now. He thought maybe my ex-steady wouldn’t like reading what’s here since we’ve made like a banana (namely my renegade cocktail-swilling, sushi-eating and heart-breaking, in that order). He’s right of course, but to change me, my life, which I find to be semi-fabulous, for someone else?
I’ve done a lot of dumb things in my life, but that won’t be one of them.
I am who I am and with each day that passes, I become a little more okay with it. People read this, people don’t, but if I can’t say what I really feel or am doing, on almostliterary, of all places, then there is no point whatsoever. Besides, if I don’t speak my mind here, it will boil over in other places and I’ll find myself in a fashion spread stock meeting, adjusting my headband, eyes glazed, toes turned in, and when my boss asks me what I’m thinking about, it’ll come all out…
I’m not that great at it, clearly. I swear and I cringe because I know it’s vulgar and unbecoming to a girl. At work I can’t laugh too loud. At home when guests come over, I scurry to peel off yoga pants and look more presentable. It’s not that as I am I am a crude, slovenly, mess…or is it? And if I am, am I doing the world a disservice by such posturing--that I am a put-together creature of this city instead of an incompetent child? Or is it that I improve myself by the act of pretending, in the effort that one day I will really attain such goals?
There’s too much there to wrap our heads around right now, maybe.
And then there’s the worst kind of censorship that I can partake in, right here on this very site. My friends have fake names, my feelings are fine until they hurt someone. My diary is less than that really, because my name is shrouded. I used to think I wanted to be famous, now I just want to be.
A friend gave some intrepid advice about the words you’re reading now. He thought maybe my ex-steady wouldn’t like reading what’s here since we’ve made like a banana (namely my renegade cocktail-swilling, sushi-eating and heart-breaking, in that order). He’s right of course, but to change me, my life, which I find to be semi-fabulous, for someone else?
I’ve done a lot of dumb things in my life, but that won’t be one of them.
I am who I am and with each day that passes, I become a little more okay with it. People read this, people don’t, but if I can’t say what I really feel or am doing, on almostliterary, of all places, then there is no point whatsoever. Besides, if I don’t speak my mind here, it will boil over in other places and I’ll find myself in a fashion spread stock meeting, adjusting my headband, eyes glazed, toes turned in, and when my boss asks me what I’m thinking about, it’ll come all out…
“Summer shade, the feel of grass, how they make ribbon candy. How funny it seems when horses in France respond to native language commands. Bare feet on carpet, the hiss of fire seeping through cords of wood, my grandpa’s surfing abilities. Monogrammed stationary, heartache, the science of being hungover, dreams never met, love lost and the meaning of life…you?”
5 comments:
"Monogrammed stationary, heartache, the science of being hungover, dreams never met, love lost and the meaning of life, sexually ambiguous men in ass-less pants…you?"
i couldnt let a good joke go unused here.
They say we become who we pretend to be.
I dare you to do that kind of monologue at work. How funny that would be for your coworkers...
i have a good friend who has always said.."just do you.." it sounds almost too simple because they're just words...but it has made sense ever since I met him in high school still wearing pigtails...
Interesting - I like that outfit for Prince as well. How can you not like a 3 foot tall dude singing in yellow buttless pants?
Come on . . .
Ben O.
Changing your life for someone else never works out in the end. Some day you'll find the person that loves you just the way you are. BUt you have to love yourself first. No seriously, I know that's cliche but right after a break-up...it CAN and NEEDS to be all about you.
Post a Comment