This Is META (Or "Hopped Up On Echinacea Gummies")
This morning I received an e-mail from a reviewer for the journal, which caused a shining hot upheaval in my self (purposefully put separately). He sent an e-mail which said he was sending his review, along with further related commentary. Then in the last paragraph a sentence began, "Your blog…" I read right past it at first.
The self that sits in front of the computer at work is the same self that conjures posts for my blog, so both activities are related in my grand central station. However, just outside the center there becomes a distinction between the self that interacts with the people at work, The Good Doctor, the authors and reviewers, and the self that releases onto this blog; i.e. on the blog I can be rather crass or just plain too candid for the workplace. What I had thought was distinction just outside the center lit up and I saw that both worlds had merged.
Suddenly I felt naked and my mind flitted quickly back through as many posts as I could remember that might contain any information potentially disreputing to me and to the journal. I never speak poorly of anything journal-related because I really do, for a change, like both my job and The Good Doctor whom I work for (I purposefully never mention his name here).
Interpretation, though, is variable. My imagination is fanciful. Yesterday I tossed in a hint of fanciful cock about having the authority to make mid-process decisions while The Good Doctor is away. I wrote it in thoughtful play, but it occurred to me that it could be loosely interpreted into a disrespectfulness in the way manuscripts are handled. In actuality, it’s rather impressive the time and care The Good Doctor puts into each manuscript, and I am flattered that he trusts my instinct to act while he is gone.
This morning’s e-mail hit me also with something my selves continually battle out. I am of that breed of people who simultaneously 1. thinks of myself as too freakish, too unintelligent, too worthless to reveal to the outside, and 2. knows I am a bit freakish but considers it an asset and knows that I am intelligent. The two circle and cycle in a habit that hides the much of the central self and results, oscillatingly, in a twitchy neurotic who when the hidden coins clink to the outside ear draws unfamiliar attention. I clip my fingernails while walking about in public. Now you know.
People have asked me if I grew up Catholic. Nope. But for some reason I grew up with all sorts of guilt just for being human me, feeling I should hide me: They can’t know I say naughty words, they can’t know I’ve sampled drugs, they can’t know I burp or fart, they can’t know I sometimes have unsavory thoughts—or thoughts at all—even though everybody else is just as human in varying configurations, with their own version of clipping their nails in public.
For some reason, though in recent years I’ve become more capable of pulling carrots and beets out of my soil, it has been an unfounded rule set by some mysterious author that I shouldn’t and couldn’t share my thoughts. Doing so in written word has never been a problem for me. That probably has something to do with the alternate consciousness from which I write, so distinct from that from which I speak. Sometimes I look at what I’ve written and wonder who wrote it. It’s my handwriting, but it looks so foreign. It is foreign when I see the inside outside of me. I'll continue learning to deliver more carrots and beets to the outside, because it's ok if my grandma or a man I've never met in Australia know I use foul language and clip my nails in public. I'll also maintain the luxury of going succinctly from self to self to self where appropriate and when I choose to.
Two other separate selves will meet on Saturday when I meet up with a girl I haven't seen since we were approximately twelve years old. Here's to active elimination of boundaries.
Should you pass by again, you who brought two of my disparate worlds together this morning, hello to you and thank you for challenging my setting.
The self that sits in front of the computer at work is the same self that conjures posts for my blog, so both activities are related in my grand central station. However, just outside the center there becomes a distinction between the self that interacts with the people at work, The Good Doctor, the authors and reviewers, and the self that releases onto this blog; i.e. on the blog I can be rather crass or just plain too candid for the workplace. What I had thought was distinction just outside the center lit up and I saw that both worlds had merged.
Suddenly I felt naked and my mind flitted quickly back through as many posts as I could remember that might contain any information potentially disreputing to me and to the journal. I never speak poorly of anything journal-related because I really do, for a change, like both my job and The Good Doctor whom I work for (I purposefully never mention his name here).
Interpretation, though, is variable. My imagination is fanciful. Yesterday I tossed in a hint of fanciful cock about having the authority to make mid-process decisions while The Good Doctor is away. I wrote it in thoughtful play, but it occurred to me that it could be loosely interpreted into a disrespectfulness in the way manuscripts are handled. In actuality, it’s rather impressive the time and care The Good Doctor puts into each manuscript, and I am flattered that he trusts my instinct to act while he is gone.
This morning’s e-mail hit me also with something my selves continually battle out. I am of that breed of people who simultaneously 1. thinks of myself as too freakish, too unintelligent, too worthless to reveal to the outside, and 2. knows I am a bit freakish but considers it an asset and knows that I am intelligent. The two circle and cycle in a habit that hides the much of the central self and results, oscillatingly, in a twitchy neurotic who when the hidden coins clink to the outside ear draws unfamiliar attention. I clip my fingernails while walking about in public. Now you know.
People have asked me if I grew up Catholic. Nope. But for some reason I grew up with all sorts of guilt just for being human me, feeling I should hide me: They can’t know I say naughty words, they can’t know I’ve sampled drugs, they can’t know I burp or fart, they can’t know I sometimes have unsavory thoughts—or thoughts at all—even though everybody else is just as human in varying configurations, with their own version of clipping their nails in public.
For some reason, though in recent years I’ve become more capable of pulling carrots and beets out of my soil, it has been an unfounded rule set by some mysterious author that I shouldn’t and couldn’t share my thoughts. Doing so in written word has never been a problem for me. That probably has something to do with the alternate consciousness from which I write, so distinct from that from which I speak. Sometimes I look at what I’ve written and wonder who wrote it. It’s my handwriting, but it looks so foreign. It is foreign when I see the inside outside of me. I'll continue learning to deliver more carrots and beets to the outside, because it's ok if my grandma or a man I've never met in Australia know I use foul language and clip my nails in public. I'll also maintain the luxury of going succinctly from self to self to self where appropriate and when I choose to.
Two other separate selves will meet on Saturday when I meet up with a girl I haven't seen since we were approximately twelve years old. Here's to active elimination of boundaries.
Should you pass by again, you who brought two of my disparate worlds together this morning, hello to you and thank you for challenging my setting.
4 Comments:
What did he say about the blog? Was it good or bad? I am often concerned that one day my blog will catch up with me,when I'm on my high-powered career track(haha),and people will misinterpret things I've said,take jokes seriously,etc,etc.
I've also realized that my mother tried disgustingly hard to raise me as Catholic,but all that survived was the guilt.
He mentioned the echinacea gummies, the Latino midgets, and the copy machine and salad instances--in a way that was funny. So all seems well, but it did set my mind to spinning.
I love you.
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