On Waiting

Waiting is an enchantment: I have received orders not to move.

Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse (38).

Of late I dream of finality. Closing doors. Shuttered windows. Latched fence-gates. Ends of conversations.

I wonder: with how many people have I already had my last conversation?

I dream in this way because I have tired of waiting. Waiting, as Barthes writes, is an enchantment. An order not to move. I also think of waiting as a passionate exercise. Waiting is like doubting. To be certain is to shut the door. To doubt is to leave it indeterminately open. It requires daily effort and attention, it requires your commitment. Commitment. Now there’s a funny word. In waiting, one commits to a noncommittal. To an indefatigable uncertainty.

I dream in this way because I waited for a person for almost three years. I waited because our many near-misses strung me along with an unspoken promise that one day we might catch one another. When we finally were in the same place and the same time, I realized that he was telling me (without explicitly telling me) the exact same reasons for not wanting to be with me that he said in 2014. Back then, it sounded mature. On the recent evening in question, though, it sounded like a recitation. A script. A prefabricated request that I continue to wait.

But I cannot wait. I will not.

It is easy to believe that our problem was timing. But timing is for figure skaters and standup comics. You either want to be with someone, or you don’t. I wanted to be with him, to make a go of it, to at least try. But he did not want that. He did not want me.

And that’s okay.

I dream of finality because its arrival here was strange. I expected finality to come from him, for him to be the one to close the door, to end the conversation. For whatever reason, he could not do it. He would not do it. It had to be me. And I am trying now to recover from that.

To be the one who ends the passionate exercise of waiting is to be the one who must navigate a now-empty room. I shut the door on the room I made in my life for him, a room which he never intended to occupy. And now I have this empty space. How does one move forward? With what might one fill this space? Should one even try to fill it? Or should one simply tear it back down?

To wait is to receive orders not to move. But I have finally given myself instruction to forward march on feet that have fallen asleep and on legs that cannot remember which muscles are used to go on.

How does one recover? How does one locate happiness again, how does one’s theory of happiness have to change to accommodate this uninhabited room? I dream in this way because in shutting the door, in ending the conversation, in giving orders to move, I have freed myself from a prolonged enchantment. And I am uncertain what I want to do with my freedom first.


On Promises

Neitzsche wrote in On the Genealogy of Morals that to make a promise is to make a prediction regarding one’s own future. To make a promise to someone else, if we follow that idea from Nietzsche, is to make a prediction regarding the couple’s entangled future. When that promise is broken, not only is it a betrayal of the trust it founded, but it also nullifies that future. It prevents it from ever coming to fruition.

I believe this is why breakups hurt the way they do. The person doing the leaving had promised something to the person being left. He promised her a future, and now he is taking that away after he made her wait for it. She planned for it, prepared for it, altered the course of her life for it. And when he recants, he undoes all of that hope. He takes her future away. How swiftly he can destroy a life she built but did not yet have the chance to live.

Friendship, Favors, and Toxic Influence

The summer before my junior year of college, I was in therapy. Again. I was seeing this counselor for a number of reasons, and the help I received was incredible, but the thing I remember most is the only time she ever interrupted me. I’d been telling her about a person I knew from my freshman dorm, and I said, “I have this friend–well, he’s not really a friend–” She stopped me to ask: “If you two aren’t friends anymore, why do you still call him one? I was surprised because I’d never thought of my relationship to that person having ended, even though I never saw him anymore and we hadn’t spoken in two years at that point. I mean, I sometimes refer to complete strangers on Tumblr as my “friend,” so it’s safe to say my definition of the word is a bit warped.

I’m coming up on the one year “anniversary” of my leaving Virginia and moving to South Dakota. In this past year, I’ve thought a lot about what friendship actually means to me. Do I like this person, or do I just like things about them? Do I not really like them, but like that they care about me? Do I like how liking them makes me feel about my own emotional capacities (because sometimes I worry I’m slightly sociopathic)? The truth is, I am still working on it. But I’ve made a lot of progress, and I’m proud of that. I’ve become better at recognizing when a friendship sours, when an attachment withers. And I’ve become better about leaving.

I only have one friend from middle/high school. I think I actively stay in touch with, at most, four people from college. And now I’m making new friends in grad school, but I can tell that only a couple will last. How many of these people have I already had my last conversation with?

A turning point was reached today. I saw on Facebook that a person I was very close with in college was upset that she didn’t win a photo contest held by our alumni association. I wasn’t surprised by my complete lack of sympathy, because the first time I’d heard from her in over a year was when she messaged me to tell me (not ask me) to get people to vote for her photo. She only reached out because she wanted me to do something for her. And now, reading her post where she rails against the contest result (her cat photo had the most likes, but the alumni association specifically stated it was a contest for dog photos), I realized that if I still lived in Virginia, still had an active presence and entanglement in this person’s life, I would be upset, too. But I don’t. So I’m not. Honestly, I thought the whole thing was ridiculous. Maybe I just didn’t get why her participation was so important to begin with. Maybe I just don’t have the energy today.
Or maybe, just maybe, we aren’t friends anymore.

My brain immediately jumped to: “Well, I love M and I love her cat, so I should be irked, I guess.” I felt ashamed that I didn’t care about this person being upset, ashamed that I called my mom to vent about it and ended up laughing and saying, “It’s literally the stupidest thing.” Once the guilt of my initial reaction wore off, I realized something. I don’t love her. I may love the way I remember her, but she’s a totally different person now. I do not know her, and we are not friends. I suddenly felt relieved.

There are so many instances in popular culture that depict friendship as something that must last forever. Some of these depictions are ones that are dangerously codependent and frightfully unhealthy. Someone that is important to you today will not be important to you forever, and coming to terms with that is the most valuable emotional step a person can make. We hold on to toxic people who only reach out when it benefits them, who don’t really care about us, who actually may not even like us anymore but feel obligated to hold on to us too, because we are constantly told that for a friendship to be great and legitimate, it has to last. Be unbreakable. Be permanent and unchanging, even when the individuals change. This static perception of friendship is dangerous. Our attachments need room to be nuanced, to be fluid, and yes, even to be broken off.

Revised Summer Stack: Scrappy Little Nobody

There’s a few memoirs in my revised stack, and for good reason. I love memoirs. Can’t get enough of ’em. I had a three-day lull in my reading, so I willed myself (with great fucking effort) to get back in the saddle. I turned off my computer (which meant turning off Netflix in the middle of my Dexter binge-watch, and that was by far the most daunting part of the whole thing), made myself a snack, and then curled up in my bed with Scrappy Little Nobody by Anna Kendrick. I did not move from that spot for the five hours it took to read.

(The speed-reading in which one might see me engaged during the academic year is reserved exclusively for my coursework. I’m surprisingly capable of enjoying a leisurely pace when I’m reading literally anything else.)

A majority of my staying in one place was, of course, an incredible amount of willpower to not. put. down. another. damn. book, but also the fact that I didn’t want to put down Kendrick’s book. I’ve often found it quite easy to make distinctions between things I enjoy about a book and things I appreciate about a book — there is a difference, and it’s as simple as saying that just because I can appreciate what an author is doing (as a writer) does not mean I enjoy what the author is doing (as a reader). But with Scrappy Little Nobody, those demarcations weren’t as easy to set in my mind. The Venn Diagram of things I appreciated and things I enjoyed was almost just a circle.

Scrappy Little Nobody has an interesting structure for a performer’s memoir. What I’ve found is that a lot of performer memoirs are organized on a very A-to-B-to-C progression of their careers, with light sprinkling of personal insights to fill the gaps between professional developments. (The most glaring exception to this, in my reading experience, being the previously-posted-about Odd Birds by Ian Harding.) In Kendrick’s book, the first few chapters were almost exactly that, but as the writing progressed, I began picking up on some interesting play with a non-linear narrative flow. Though a lot of the “early life” things were structured around her auditions and her jobs, once Scrappy Little Nobody reached the point at which Kendrick went off into the world on her own (from Maine to L. A., without a car), the text was organized more as a collection of short essays and musings focused on a selection of topics. Thematic, rather than strictly chronological. The essays within each thematic section (ranging from relationships to publicity, to fashion, to friendship) were arranged chronologically when it benefitted the Main Point, which was often a perspectival shift. In the section on boys, we start with the childhood crushes, to the early romantic relationships, to exploring sex, to her current view on it all.

There were two other things I found particularly enticing about Kendrick’s book (besides her vocal clarity and comedic timing) were her use of footnotes, and the presence of a small section at the very end that was designed as book club questions. As the inevitable hour in which I must get serious (more serious?) about my thesis draws ever nearer, I’ve begun to accumulate (from more contemporary nonfiction) stylistic choices with which I want to experiment. I’ve tried to implement footnotes in a similar way to what Kendrick has done here — not in a research-based, citational way, which is obviously the traditional and most widely-accepted use of footnotes, but to use them in a way that adds additional information while maintaining a tonal consistency with the regular text. I’ve tried my hand at this before, to some measure of success (at least I think my professor liked it???), and Kendrick’s footnote usage gives me hope that it can be done, and done well.

What I appreciated and enjoyed about the “reading group questions” in the back of the book was that it kind of poked at the fact that a lot of these books in the contemporary nonfiction/celebrity memoir genre are often book club selections — and it was another opportunity for Kendrick’s humor to shine. Many (read: all) of the questions were hilarious, and ridiculous, and even a bit absurd. It was a solid fourth-wall break, and closing with a section that steers the book into this kind of meta territory is an intriguing choice. I’d need to sleep on it to say anything more insightful about it. Don’t worry. It’ll come.

I have no idea what from my list I’m going to read next. If it’s not Ronda Rousey’s My Fight / Your Fight, then it’ll probably be Deleuze & Guattari’s Anti-Oedipus. I know. Wildly different options, those. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve found that my taste in books has become what some might consider to be disturbingly eclectic.



Revised Summer Stack: Odd Birds

I am trash for celebrity memoir. Specifically memoirs written by performers. As a human with a performing background of my own, I’ve long been drawn to similar individuals, those whose method of storytelling is achieved by their personal physicality in a given space. My preoccupation with performer memoirs began in 10th grade (or maybe it was 11th?) when I read Kristin Chenoweth’s A Little Bit Wicked. Chenoweth, for those who might not know, originated the role of Galinda in Stephen Schwartz’s hit musical Wicked, which is a minor character elaboration for Elphaba, the Wicked Witch of the West. My mom and I would rock the fuck out to the soundtrack, so when I realized that Chenoweth had a memoir published, I had to get it. And read it. Immediately.

And thus my fascination with memoir began. I’ve read a lot in these few short years since Chenoweth’s, and as I gradually shifted away from performing to almost exclusively being a writer, I started thinking about my own work with memoir. I’d done a few short CNF pieces during my undergrad years, and I’ve recently written some larger, longer CNF pieces in graduate school. And, now that I’ve figured out what my MA thesis will entail (a lot of CNF), I’ve begun to examine how I want to write my life. What do I want to emulate from the many, many memoirs I’ve read? What do I want to avoid as though it were a plague? Most importantly: how do I want to frame this story?

My favorite memoirs all have successful frames. Their organizing principles are quite clear. For Chenoweth’s, it was structured around performance history. For Ronda Rousey’s My Fight / Your Fight, it was her sports history, segueing cleanly from childhood classes, to her Olympic debut, to her entry in the UFC (I’m leaving a lot of personal-life stuff out, but you get the idea). All of the personal stories about love, loss, conflict, etc. were grounded in very clean progressions of their career. They ping-pong eloquently between the professional and the personal.

But Ian Harding’s Odd Birds is framed quite differently. Knowing of Harding from his work on the television show Pretty Little Liars, in which he plays one of the series’ most divisive characters, I expected his life-writing debut to be centered largely on PLL. I was anticipating lots of behind-the-scenes details and conversations with castmates – not quite like a tell-all, but maybe something close to it. What I found instead was a refreshingly non-linear collection of anecdotes and short essays, the organizing principle of which was not performing, but birding.

Birding, y’all.

Harding is a birder.

Some of my favorite chapters were ones in which Harding (and occasionally a friend or two) would go out on a long hike somewhere in California in search of new birds to look at. I enjoyed them not only for what revelations Harding experienced during the trips, but how birding quickly became the connective tissue for his personal and professional stories. His oldest passion links his life together in a beautiful way, a way in which that passion reveals truths about his profession, and helps him navigate and understand his place in the world. Perhaps my favorite of those truths is that, as Harding puts it, finding work as an actor is often a lot like trying to locate something new as a birder. Sometimes you think what you’re seeing is a condor – rare, elusive, once-in-a-lifetime – but it’s really just a turkey vulture – surprisingly similar to the rare thing at first glance, but it’s more common than you might think.

Similarly, Harding writes that on the condor trip, he learned that sometimes you get very caught up in what you did not see, what did not work out, that you miss taking stock of all the cool things you did see on that journey. You lose sight of the things that did work out. Harding might not have seen the condor on that particular hike, but he writes that he did see at least five kinds of birds he’d never seen before. Which, in the grand scheme of things, is pretty amazing.

I think the non-linear structure works well for Odd Birds, because Harding isn’t as invested in the point-A-to-point-B style that a lot of other performer memoirs fall into. His writing is more about the big moments, the lessons learned, etc. When you ask someone, in a real conversation, to tell you about the defining moments of their life, they don’t disclose them in a nice and tidy chronological order. You get the things that immediately stand out to the person. The things that matter most, perhaps in no particular order. Information is delivered when it is most pertinent, when it can have the biggest impact. It’s a bit like what Harding writes about bird books. In the front, you see pictures of an albatross or a shearwater, “birds most people never lay eyes on” (251). These bird books are not in order of oldest-to-newest, or smallest-to-largest, but are instead frontloaded with rarity. Big, amazing, spectacularly uncommon birds.

To me, that’s what I want my life-writing to be like. I want to share the impactful stuff, and I want to do so in a way that is unburdened by day-to-day, A-to-B connectivity. I want it to be scrambled up and colorful, Funfetti-style, because that’s what the parts of life worth writing about truly are, I think. It’s a mixtape without skip-songs. It’s a bird book with the albatross right up front.

Revised Summer Stack: everyone’s an aliebn when ur an aliebn too

I have never encountered a book quite like Jomny Sun’s latest work. I picked it up from the Sioux Falls Barnes and Noble for two reasons: (1) I follow Jomny on Twitter, and I think he says good things; (2) Lin-Manuel Miranda’s endorsement of the book is on the back cover…and so is Patton Oswalt’s and Joss Whedon’s. I spent about thirty minutes wandering around the B&N stacks before giving up and asking an employee, who looked only mildly frustrated when I disclosed the title of what I was searching for. (“What was the rest of it? When You’re An Alie…bn?” “Yeah, but it’s u-r. ur.”) I got the last copy the store had in stock – way to go, Jomny! – and immediately went home and read.

It felt like it took me longer to find the book in the store than it did for me to sit down and read it (and then spend a little bit of time crying over it). You see, it felt that way for a couple of reasons, the first being that the book is illustrated, so the pages (panels?) actually go by rather quickly. The second is that once I got a few pages/panels in, I did not want to put the damn thing down. I was hooked. Then I was shook. It’s rare for me to find a book that pulls me in that fast and that intensely. (The only other one I can think of off the top of my head was Woolf’s The Waves.)

Warning: here be spoilers.

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