Friday, February 06, 2004

I’m starting a make-believe correspondence sparked by one with an actual friend… from my correspondence with her and my reference to the metaphysical ponderings of adolesence, I was inspired to write in a ‘dear diary’ format; however this time I’d like to address a fictitious character named Ms. Magnolia.


2/6/2004
Dear Magnolia,

Thank you... for that post before last. I think I actually felt release. I could live vicariously through your purging. I only wish I could achieve something as fluid, expressive. I suppose my constipation with words comes from my twelve years in parochial school. They were more concerned with mechanics and how things looked. Self expression was not so much frowned upon; I'd say it was looked upon with mistrust. At least I wasn't born a Baptist (southern-fried). I'd rather have been raised by a pack of rabid badgers.

I read Emmanuel Kant only because his writings were part of the course curriculum during my undergrad. I can understand his point... he wanted to sum up morality, but that sounds like something that one would do out loud with one's friends during a slumber party on your fifteenth birthday. It sort of falls in line with questions… like, “What would you do if you were the only person on the planet.”

When I was that young the biggest wish I had was to be adored by all my friends. I think that when we watch reality television it sparks something from those adolescent years... those semi-serious conversations late at night about dying... telling freaky stories and saying bloody-mary into the bathroom mirror. When we watch the Boob-watch babe flashing her wares (my father often got whorehouse and warehouse mixed up), or Vanilla Ice whining like a self-indulgent putz... we're really reliving how retarded we felt in high school but from the safety of a voyeurs standpoint. As I watched Eric Estrada calming the constantly entrenched Ice down I remembered those conversations that we either had or witnessed as teen-agers. "You're past that man..." he tells him, "You're a bigger man that that." I wonder if he realizes that he's just talking to a grown man with a sixteen year old hothead trapped inside. I don't ever want to go back to to those teen years. Watching other adults live and act like teenagers on television is enough for me.

Winning the Lotto? Is that the solution? If I won the lottery, I would bathe in a tub of blue Jello. Wait, I could do that now... if I wanted to. I think buying that lottery ticket gives me a high for about five minutes. I can spend that whole five minutes fantasizing about how worry-free my life would be. That and I would be able to hire a pack of stinky, hairy Gypsies with violins to follow me and play my 'theme' music. The only thing winning a butt-load of money would really solve for me is that I wouldn't have to work at my job. I might feel some freedom for a while, but something inside me (a little fear of mine) tells me that I will always need something or someone above me, behind me, or over me... telling me what to do. I could laugh and say.... I hope at least he has a big dick. Here we return back to the catholic part of the tour - of my head.

Sorry, did I say that? Oops.

I have considered that there is a possibility that I will not be successful in finding work if I didn't have a job. Being minus a job is a definite possibility for the end of this year since it's really up in the air whether my group will still be around. I'm not too broken up over this prospect in a way. On one hand, leaving this company or group might mean I can do something new. On the other hand, I am petrified that I will end up at home watching Christopher Lowell marathons and find myself incapable of getting out of bed until the mid afternoon.

As a result of these obsessions, I've been considering lately that living in fear- fear of losing one's means of subsistence, fear that I will never amount to anything as a writer- is no way to live. I've lived in fear of a lot of things- of being alone, of not being appreciated, of being thought of as incompetent. Most of the energy I devoted to this habit of worrying has amounted to nothing. It's left me with nothing except delays.

I did and still do spend a lot of time obsessing over how I am not like 'normal' people... and unfortunately, I've been using the seemingly successful folks at my work as my yardstick for what's 'normal.' I hope this made you laugh. I've finally come to the conclusion that if they are what's NORMAL I would happily run off to join a circus freakshow... with glee.

While I shouldn't burn any bridges my current field of work (though pyromania runs in my family... my father was always lighting fires... in the yard, in the house- in the fireplace most of the time, on camping trips,) I feel strangely empowered and assured knowing that I am unlike many of these people here. Ha-ha!

Yours,

Imogene

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