restraint; one art; insider[s]

I recently wondered to myself if having restraint was stylish, and then I wondered “out loud” on my facebook page.  Mostly people agreed that it was, and I think I agree too, but the reason that I even wondered is because it’s become clear to me that I have a sometimes problem with my own definition of style when I limit it to always standing up for what you feel and always doing something about it.  In my first post, when discussing secrets, style and the public vs. the private, I tried to get at the heart of owning how you feel, while protecting the secrecy of it, or the complexity of it- that is, I struggled with the balance of standing up for how you feel, and not being afraid to say, juxtaposed with not being able to say.

I used to think restraint was only a choice.  Even a few weeks ago when I wondered if it was stylish- by my own definition- to have restraint, I meant, to chose to restrain.  From something that might not be right.  Be convenient.  Be accepted.  To take it a step further: be tolerable.  But it’s become more and more clear to me as I ponder what restraint actually is, that it’s not only a choice, but an actual inability to act, in some cases. It’s different to not be able to say (or do) than it is to choose to not to.  Whether it means giving up who you are—or who you think you are, or ought to be, anyway—or giving up something you know will change the condition of something or someone if you were to have non-restraint—this inability to act ends up being just as stylish as owning it because its completely authentic, and can’t be helped.

Another favorite music artist whom I love is Tom Petty.  So it goes without saying, that I also love the fact that he’s great friends with Stevie Nicks.  It certainly goes without saying that I like all the songs that they’ve sang together, that I know of.  My favorite among these is Insider which is a Petty song that Nicks guests on. It was originally on the “Hard Promises” album in 1981 and was Petty’s first duet, but I like the live version on the “Pack of the Plantation: Live!” album more.  The lyrics to Insiderinclude, “It’s a cage without a key” and this adequately explains what it’s like to physically, and more, emotionally, not be able to do something- to have restraint., whether because you chose to or otherwise. “I bet you’re his masterpiece.  I bet you’re his self control.  You’ll become his legacy, his quiet world…” are also lyrics to the song, and here, the effect of restraint is summarized. The legacy ends up being the self control and whatever the “you” is that restrained [him].  It’s almost bittersweet: a legacy, but a quiet one.   Binary opposites.  In fact, most of the lyrics of the song seem to alternate between committing to a particular restraint and the negative and positive effects of such.  Petty and Nicks start the song, “You’ve got a dangerous background/and everything you’ve dreamed of.”  They sing “you’re the dark angel/it don’t show when you break up” and here with both of these sets of lines, you have a positive with a negative.  A dangerous background, yet everything you’ve dreamed of.  A angel, but a dark one.  And you don’t show your feelings.  This is ultimately what being their “insider” becomes.

Oppositely, to not be able to restrain is the other side of things.  The two go hand in hand.: to not be able to hold back.  And to not be able to not hold back.  Although the phrase, I couldn’t help myself” might seem like a cheap excuse to many, I believe that this compelling mood exists.  I can’t whole-heartedly say that it’s a justified excuse; but I am saying, I do believe in physical limitations of control due to emotional and behavioral states and moods.   This is what being an insider is, what Petty describes as “crawling though the fire,” and what is like a “cage  without a key.”  Elizabeth Bishop was too, in her poem “One Art,” especially in the last line when she commands herself to “write it,” to write that the art of losing [someone] isn’t hard to master.  The parenthetical command and pause shows that not only does she not mean what she is saying, but that it was difficult to even say—write.  Restraint, and whether you practice it or you don’t is like this, and so either, holding back or not, end up being considered stylish by me.

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

delivery

Over the weekend, I discussed with friends the effectiveness of types of delivery, particularly, delivering something you already know will be opposed in general and particular by other people.  I noted, or tried to note, that effectiveness counts too, and not just the message you are trying to convey, and that sometimes, it counts more.  She noted that a passionate, even angry or condescending  (for some) position was part of the effect.  My point was not that she was right or wrong, though, for the record, I do and did disagree with her, but that I felt like she was attacking others and praising herself for what she claimed she knew, more than actually being persuasive and convincing in her position.  When I read things she posted on the web and the comments she herself included with the postings, the majority of what I took away from them was that she was better than others for believing in the things that she did, and that she wanted you to know it.  She says, that wasn’t it at all, and that she was in effect, trying to show everyone the light.  We both, I think, felt like the other one of us missed each other’s point entirely and in the end, we agreed to disagree—not just about the point of her message to begin with, but about ways of conveying it and effectiveness in general.

While I think it’s true that having passion in your position for something has its own value, for me, what always ends up sparking more curiosity and the possibility of persuasion, is the delivery of such a message and tone.  It helps when I know that someone isn’t trying to convince me of something that they know, that I don’t, but instead, when I feel like they actually want me to know and feel what they are trying to get across, while at the same time, knowing that we still do, all remain equal in our right or freedom to think whatever we want.  It’s hard not to ever feel that we are “better than” someone else, especially intellectually, and believe me, studying literature, culture and ways of being in general, even I, find myself sometimes feeling a cut above.  But this is “ugly” to me, and even if I feel like I’m in on something else that no one else is, I don’t ever want to convey that to someone.  I believe that a kinder, gentler spirit is much more attractive, and much more convincing.  I try to be, regardless, always welcoming.

It is realized by me, that for some, that makes me and what I think and feel less effective because I don’t stand up for it enough, shout it out, yell it, get angry, and other more radical forms of delivery.  And this is true, certainly, and definitely called for at times.  In fact, despite my quieter nature about things I feel, believe and think, I am very in favor of opposition, demonstration, revolution, strike, and loudly and publicly.  It’s almost always compelling.  But in the particular case of what my friend and I were discussing, I think a little less command to “educate yourselves” and a little more commentary about the benefits of what might or would occur if people were convinced at what she was trying to convince them of would have been much more effective and certainly would have left me more open to other things she might have to say later about similar and even different subjects.

End note:  My friend and I have been friends for years and this was posted with her permission even though she disagrees with most of what I’ve said.  We both, finally, agree, that we wished more engaged in discourse.  I have also invited her to write a response if she wishes, which I have agreed to post here.  

 

 

 

 

Her Response:

Unfortunately, that’s the problem with social websites and texting in general. You cannot assume the emotion behind what is posted. My tone cannot be assumed. As for tone in texting/posting, in my opinion, is expressed through CAPITALIZATION and punctuation. (Example: Educate yourself. vs. EDUCATE YOURSELF!!!!!!! are two totally different tones). As for my post, mine was the former, simply implying to educate yourself, don’t let mainstream media do it for you.

I, in no way shape or form implied that I was better, smarter, more intellectual, right, etc in my post. It was something I was happy to share with friends that I recorded my self.

As for the statement, when someone tells me to educate myself, I get a sense of empowerment. I feel as though I’m educating myself on an important topic, not relying on TV, etc to sway me. People don’t like to accept personal responsibility (most of the time) and they rely on others/media to do it for them.

After our “debate” I searched things with the saying “educate yourself”. My findings were this:
In a cardiac center of a major hospital, there were diagrams of a healthy heart. The title? “Educate Yourself”. That doesn’t offend me at all and in no way shape or form implies that I’m an idiot, or below whoever made the poster. It’s telling me to educate myself on this topic, just as I had posted.

Thank you for allowing me to reply.

only in my head

I think most artists are somewhat pre-occupied with dreams. Certainly there’s a lot of philosophy, phycology and theory regarding dreams and what they mean or why we have them. Bob Dylan is one of my favorite, timeless musicians and he sings often about dreams. I especially like the lyrics to “Talkin’ World War lll Blues” because in that song, Dylan examines how dreams are only in our heads and explores whether that means we should worry about them or not. In other words, even if you dream the most nightmarish thing possible for you, does it really matter to your waking life, because after all, it is, only a dream. Dylan, I think, would say that that’s precisely why they matter more– because they are only in our heads. You might think that subscribing to this thought would only apply to the kind of dreams we have which concern fantasy or longing, but I think we could prescribe the idea that they matter more because dreams are only in our head to our worst nightmares too. Shouldn’t we, if not afraid of, be concerned about the things we dream about that are violent, crude, or otherwise impossible to think about. The dream state is probably especially useful to think about– and more, be in the middle of– things that are otherwise impossible to think about or experience in our waking lives.

Most things we think about are worthy of examination. Especially, probably, the things we think matter very little or are just a passing thought. I believe that a close reading of anything reveals something worthwhile; everything counts. A worst nightmare might mean something fantastic and scientifically, physically or spiritually unable to occur in “real*” life. But definitely dreams about longing–directly or indirectly matter more because the are only in our heads. Who wants something they long for, crave, dream about, only in their heads? Not me, though, it does remind me that I’m alive. Longing is one of the most heightened ways to be reminded that we feel. And one of the most useful aspects of dreaming, either as a frustration or as a useful illusion is lose track of whether something was just a dream or not. Dreams that are equally the most dangerous and the most fantastic are ones that feel that they are not just, but more. And dreams that border on the line of the waking world and the dream world, with barely an eye blink to be able to tell the difference are always worthwhile. Are stylish.

Always concern yourself with your dreams, because they are, only, in your head.

*real: what is real? and who’s to say that the dream world isn’t more real than waking life. Further, what would that mean?

Bob Dylan faced with himself

i’m a ghost and i don’t think i’ve died

Ghosts and twins (and mom’s of twins–I think) have a lot in common. Both know what it’s like to need to be known, and to need to be unknown. Whether you believe in ghosts or not, and to what extent, isn’t even really relevant, because most people do at least acknowledge them hypothetically. For fun. For conversation sake. To be silly. To be scary. And twins– let me tell you– are all around, all the time.

One of my favorite novels is Her Fearful Symmetry. It’s by Audrey Niffenegger and it’s a wonderful love story, a better ghost story and insightful about the strange bond that (some, most I hope) twins have. More, it’s about the balance– or imbalance– of needing to be noticed, but wanting to be individual, and about *really being understood for what you are and who you are. It’s a wonderful book and it’s prose is exceptionally plain, yet still poetic: my favorite line is “what is more basic than the need to be known” which tells the story of any ghost. A ghosts very existence rests somewhere between being mostly invisible and wanting to be known and taking advantage of that fact that they are unknown. I think, being a twin is similar, and one day, when my boys are older than three, I will ask them, I am sure. Being a mom of twins is certainly a struggle between wanting to be like every other mom, but also wanting that extra recognition because, I’m a mom that is faced with two little people that are not only on the exact same (or almost) physical level, but the same emotional level. And the sometimes acknowledgement that I am never, ever, just a mom; always a mom of twins (identical, for that extra flair), which always, always comes with extra attention. Similarly, having twins–and mostly being one– and being a ghost– according to Niffenegger, anyway– is a lot of work. More so than being “singular” or “alive.” The work it takes to both be noticed and unnoticed is physically and emotionally exhausting. And to be there, but not really count, matter or be noticed is the worst punishment there is. Certainly, we all know what this feel likes, even if we aren’t a ghost or a twin. The prologue to the novel is a quote from The Beatles song “She Said, She Said” and is among my very favorite quotes: “She said, I know what it’s like to be dead. I know what it is to be sad. And she’s making me feel like I’ve never been born.” That is, if you haven’t really known what it’s like to be sad, unnoticed, or heartbroken, not only are you not living stylishly, you aren’t really “alive.”

What is more basic than the need to be known? The need to be unknown. But it’s a delicate balance, which we are all waiting to find. A friend told me once that humanity resides in waiting, and I want to say, that ghosts reside there too.

One more thing: I get too much attention, most of the time. More than I’d prefer, and definitely more than I deserve. But, some of the time, I do know what it’s like to be dead. And I know what it is to be sad. And I hope you do too.

for the eve of my birthday

Love After Love

The time will come

when, with elation,

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror,

and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here.  Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine.  Give bread.  Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit.  Feast on your life.

–Derek Walcott

when summer turns to spring

Starting new and over isn’t always being new. New beginnings are so often a return to something old, something familiar, something unnew.  Either something you meant to do (or feel), something you meant to say and even something you should have done, said, felt, and been, but never did is still like a return; is one. I recently stopped working at a job I had been at for over ten years and I don’t think there’s anything I’ve ever done for ten years straight, not even live with a particular parent as a young child, so getting used to the idea that the office I worked at was going to close took me at least six months to prepare for–if you could call what I did “preparing;” it was more a state of denial– and I’m still not sure I’m used to the idea, emotionally.  I can say, it’s not as bad as I thought it would be, and I don’t mean financially.  I have worked since I was fifteen years old, including the day I had my three year old twins.  Staying home terrified me.

But here I am, some five weeks later, and I’ve started a business with a close friend which appears like it will do well.  And I’ve started this blog, which is so much more me than what I was doing at my job for the last ten years.  Working for a Newport Beach attorney for over ten years definitely has its benefits, and again, I don’t mean financially. I have learned some of my most valuable life lessons from the people I have encountered and worked with.  I have been a part of meaningful and some (much too many) non-meaningful transactions.  And I do love the law.  But I love being in my own head more.  Having the time to read fantastic memoirs and the best poems I’ve ever read.  Being in the mood to really think about the things that I see, watch, read, feel.   Returning to the ideas and modes of being I learned and loved while in school.  Returning to who I thought I was as a young idealist, and who I hope to become, still.  In essence this is what summer turning to spring means for me.

One of my favorite moods is “still, again” because of all the things that these two words wedded together mean.  They contradict each other because if something is still, the implication is that it never ended so how can it start yet again?  But when you’re stilled and quieted, perhaps you realize that it never really did end, and there it is again, or still.  Yet another way to look at this could be still, end, begin again with something old, but as something new.  Possibility always remains.

Everyone (I hope) has something (or someone) that they hope to return to.  And to start new with.  I believe in second chances, and third and fourth ones.  And then some.  Anyone who knows me–really knows me– knows that I never really give up on something.  An idea.  A person.  Something that seems so lost and so gone.  And so many things do these days; socially, politically, personally.  I simply smile and say, “time is nothing,”  and it’s not and I find comfort in the fact that we are all, always waiting for something or someone (if we are living stylishly anyway). It’s only when you start to find your way back to what you love, who you love, who you always wished you were or wanted to be, that summer turns to spring and the old feels new.  This is what makes time moving backwards–or standing still even– bearable.

“when summer turns to spring” are lyrics from the song Jltf on Moby’s album “Wait for Me.”

the grandeur of spontaneity

While contemplating blog writing with a friend, she pointed out to me that blogs are supposed to be spontaneous, quick moving and less edited than other kinds of writing. Another friend pointed out to me that some (or all) posts should be brief and cut right to the point– his exact words were “foreplay is good, but four hours of foreplay is not,” and while I haven’t figured out if I agree with any of this or not, or if it matters,  I do think that spontaneity is grand.  To think or feel something without any censorship could be counted as more authentic, more raw, and it could even be said that by the time you yourself say it (out-loud, or write it) you have already censored your tone, your words, the gesture behind the thought.

I do know, that I have had some of the best conversations I’ve ever had through instant messaging, on message boards at UC Irvine or in an alcoholic haze.  All of these places feel and seem more spontaneous than a careful and deliberate conversation, and seem to be places where you can say (and feel) things that might be received differently if they were said in a different time and and place (or through a different channel). I have also written some of my best essays, as in class examinations, in which the prompt wasn’t given out before hand.  And some of the best things I have ever thought, have only ever been, to myself.

There are age old sayings about how real life happens when you’re busy planning something out, about how you’re never really ready to have children, but most people just rise to the occasion anyway(or don’t), and how the best and most beautiful things in life are the ones that just sort of happened.  While I try to be a person that is open to spontaneous and all the things that have happened in my life that haven’t been perfectly planned out by me, I also know that change is hard for me.  But then again, so is doing everything on some pre-determined life schedule–doing what I’m “supposed” to be doing.  This is so hard for me that I sometimes over-reach for something that’s supposedly more spontaneous and less planned and end up forcing that along, which negates the whole point to begin with.  I’ve done this a lot actually, and in too many ways to count have rebelled against some of the more traditional things in my life– some of the more planned out things trying to exchange them for something supposedly more spontaneous.  The truth is (my truth, anyway), that it all works.  Planned.  Spontaneous.  Meant-to-be’s and sort-of-just-happened’s.  They work for each of us in varying degrees and in different ways.

My blog is probably less spontaneous than other ones, but that’s my nature (or my lack of confidence).  That is, I don’t log onto the admin page and “write and post.” It’s edited (but never enough), and it’s lengthy by some standards.  For some people, a blog is just a serious of pictures with small captions, or sometimes no captions– after all, images do speak for themselves, right?  And mine, probably won’t be updated as often as it should be (whatever should be is).  I don’t want to write about something “heavy” and specific every time, and diving in with D.A. Miller and the notion that real style usually comes at the expense of social manners might have been “a lot” for some. Another friend told me recently, before I posted anything at all, that my blog doesn’t have to be like anyone else’s if I didn’t want it to be, and its my hope that it’s not.

Spontaneity is grand.  It’s terrifying, and it’s authentic.  But so is everything else.  And that thing you have been planning and waiting for all your life (see “Starting Somewhere”) will probably show up at an inconvenient time and in way or form you weren’t quite expecting.  But there it will be, and it will be grand.  If you let it be.