I am popping at the seams. I find myself listening to The Fame Monster by Lady Gaga on repeat, staring out dark subway windows on the 1. Half the time I'm just staring at myself in the window wondering whether I made the right choice to come, to be here, to pursue this profession.
I'm not the best in my class, in fact I'm far behind many of classmates in both reporting and writing. Whatever relative prowess or ability I thought I had with writing before has gotten mostly, if not almost entirely, swiped from my hands. Not to be a whiny pain in the ass, but my tail is in between my legs and for the last two weeks my self-esteem has been dragged through the muddy, sewage ridden New York gutters. A good analogy would be me as Peter Pan (circa Disney's 1953 animated release) and my self-esteem as his skittish, unattainable shadow running the hell away. I've attempted to re-attach my self-esteem but, like Peter, I've found that soap (or perky "you can do it!" chants in my case) just aren't cutting it to keep that sucker tacked to me. Who has a sewing kit I can borrow?
RW1 is the basic reporting class each of us has to go through before we can finish our Fall term. It is the largest, most demanding time and emotional suck of a class I have ever had. RW1 requires that you pick a beat to cover for the entirety of the semester -- a topic (food, money, health) or a physical neighborhood (Astoria, Harlem, LES, or in my case, Hell's Kitchen) and find stories for the duration of your time as a cub reporter there. This is how old-school daily print reporters have been trained for many, many years. You learn basic news writing style, how to structure a story, and get the shoe-leather reporting skills that generations before you have perfected. Ask the right questions. Find the leads. Get the story. Before we arrive, it's what we're all looking to learn at some level otherwise we wouldn't be here. We want that real world experience when so many of us have come from a reporting background of desk phone calls, press-releases or googling. Or, we have no experience at all.
The reality is you knock on doors and get rejected time and time and time again. You get laughed at when you tell people you're a student, you feel like an ass because you aren't publishing the work you're getting people to give their time up for, and everything you inevitably find out is about 50 percent less than you actually need. But really, these are all very good lessons that you learn. Every time you don't get what you want gives you a smack on the butt to get up and get it right the next time. Every failure feels terrible, but oh the successes, those sweet successes that come few and far between, are worth every terrible story idea or interview before it. The time you got that source to talk when no one else could, when you find the story that you've always known was there and everyone missed. It feels like you have been vindicated more, better, than you have been in years. Goddammit, you were right.
They tell you it's going to be hard when you get here. Actually, they tell you before you get here, when you get here, and while you're going through it. But lately that often doesn't seem like enough.
Almost all of the young journalists I've talked in the last few weeks, especially my classmates, have begun to voice questions, doubts, and concerns over whether we should be pursuing journalism. Are we built for this? Is our writing good enough? Is our reporting strong enough? Should we really be following this path? The industry is tough right now, tougher than before, and as the previous generation of journalists continues to get booted from newsrooms around the country, we're catching the trickle down of their messy company breakups. People are bitter, terrified, and often still cling to a model or ideal of journalism that doesn't match up with the world our class is seeing today.
We're being taught a standard of journalism that worked for more than a century, primarily based around daily newspaper production and writing. But we're also constantly confronted with these points: the industry is structurally changing, newspapers need to consider what content they're going to be good at cause, uh, people get most of that info elsewhere now (for free!), magazines no longer have ad pages coming in, and online journalism isn't yet generating enough revenue to be a feasible business model even with millions of followers. So, young reporters, what do we do?
There's no answer to that question right now. All I have are these curiosities sitting in the back of my head that need to be fleshed out, "unpacked" as so many professors here love to say. What I do know is that I feel like I've gotten smacked and kicked around a decent amount in the last four months. Speared, roasted, flambéed ... but I can't deny that I haven't learned a ton. I do feel infinitely better at reporting than when I entered (hmm, what does that say for how well I used to report if I'm still not good?), I'm reading more voraciously than before and I'm producing work I never thought I'd produce. I guess it's working the magic it's supposed to work, but goodness it's been a slog. I don't know if it was entirely worth it just yet.
Here's what I'm hoping: first semester presents you with all of the background, all of the questions that are being asked, and all of the situations that you might shy away from if you didn't have an organization shoving them in your face. I'm praying that second term will bring some solutions, some answers and a clearer path. I still find journalism titillating and engaging in a way no other industry really strikes me. But working in a daily newsroom seems like drudgery and frustration to me right now. I like reporting, but I struggle when I'm not interested in the story I'm telling. Maybe that's normal, though, and I'm just being an epically big cry baby. I can't decide if the pull I feel to radio broadcasting and photography is something worth pursuing, or just another path that will lead to the depressing realization that I'm not cut out for this.
Get broke down before you get built up. Right? ... Right. If I have a fit of tourettes when you next see me, please know it's not meant to offend in any way. I'm just a little imbalanced right now. Happy Thanksgiving, peeps!
Showing posts with label ruminations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ruminations. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Elizabeth Gilbert and Creativity
Elizabeth Gilbert wrote Eat, Pray, Love. The epic woman's tale of finding yourself in foreign lands after a torturous divorce and rebound relationship gone wrong. Ostensibly, this book is everything that I, and any woman familiar with self-loathing and flagellation after being steamrolled by "man," could hope to read. It should appeal very particularly to women with firm groundings in feminist and independent female thought. Yet, I got maybe forty pages in before I dropped it on my bookshelf in disgust. (The first twenty-five pages is morose and self-pitying, with overly perverse depictions of her balled up on bathroom floors sobbing into tile. Really, uplifting. Try reading it.) I should go back and muscle through the pity since her trips to Italy and India are apparently transcendent vicarious experiences. Especially given my upcoming "walkabout" in Europe. But in the meantime, I'll just post the talk she gave at TED in Long Beach a couple days ago.
She talks about being a writer to some extent, but mostly she discusses the origins of creativity, and why it's often thought of as a torturous and soul depleting process in recent years as opposed to -- wait for it -- the blessing of an unknown being, inspiration from on high, or simply being in the right place at the right time.
I live in San Francisco, so mind you I am big on understanding. (Momma See last night actually said, "You're so tolerant with people. Maybe you shouldn't always be so tolerant, because until you demand, people won't perform.") Since moving home from Boston, I've become a little too "oh, you're such a special little snowflake" for my own tastes. But what Gilbert is suggesting -- the Daemon, deity, or whatever you want to call it, who visits you as you're working and imbues your work with creative genius -- is both the best and most ludicrous presentation of the creative process I've heard in awhile. I believe in the concept of divine inspiration. It's been around for millenia, and if anything I think talent and ability are gifts given before we're aware of their existence. But mostly, and I am a bit biased, I think Gilbert is a bit of a gas bag. My guess is she gave the speech as some disclaimer to how potentially bad her next book is going to be. Then again, if I were in her shoes (and really, who am I to critique since I'm not a New York Times bestselling author, now am I?) I would probably feel the same way.
I suppose what I'm trying to say is, she brings up an interesting idea about how we find inspiration. Or, rather, how we pursue inspiration by writing endlessly in spite of the long bouts of uninspiration between one good piece and another. But I hate that she presents it as this idea unique to her and a very select few. Many writers and artists, with the exception of the ultra narcissistic ones, feel that there is an ebb and flow to their talent. When there's an ebb, they usually start praying to God or bartering with the devil to get the slightest hint of creative ability. While I was at Robert Mckee's seminar last march, one of the best pieces of wisdom he offered us (and one which will stick with me probably for the rest of my life) is that 90% of what you write is going to be absolute shit. But you keep writing so you can get the 10% that is absolute gold.
Hopefully my diatribe hasn't swayed you from watching the twenty minutes of her talk. If you've never thought about the creative process in this way before, it's worth hearing just so you can turn it over in your head a few times. I'll give Gilbert credit for that. You're not the only one who thought that up, but keep spreading the gospel, sister, apparently that's what you're best at.
P.S. Does anyone else think she seems kind of like she's trying to look like Steve Jobs at MacWorld?
She talks about being a writer to some extent, but mostly she discusses the origins of creativity, and why it's often thought of as a torturous and soul depleting process in recent years as opposed to -- wait for it -- the blessing of an unknown being, inspiration from on high, or simply being in the right place at the right time.
I live in San Francisco, so mind you I am big on understanding. (Momma See last night actually said, "You're so tolerant with people. Maybe you shouldn't always be so tolerant, because until you demand, people won't perform.") Since moving home from Boston, I've become a little too "oh, you're such a special little snowflake" for my own tastes. But what Gilbert is suggesting -- the Daemon, deity, or whatever you want to call it, who visits you as you're working and imbues your work with creative genius -- is both the best and most ludicrous presentation of the creative process I've heard in awhile. I believe in the concept of divine inspiration. It's been around for millenia, and if anything I think talent and ability are gifts given before we're aware of their existence. But mostly, and I am a bit biased, I think Gilbert is a bit of a gas bag. My guess is she gave the speech as some disclaimer to how potentially bad her next book is going to be. Then again, if I were in her shoes (and really, who am I to critique since I'm not a New York Times bestselling author, now am I?) I would probably feel the same way.
I suppose what I'm trying to say is, she brings up an interesting idea about how we find inspiration. Or, rather, how we pursue inspiration by writing endlessly in spite of the long bouts of uninspiration between one good piece and another. But I hate that she presents it as this idea unique to her and a very select few. Many writers and artists, with the exception of the ultra narcissistic ones, feel that there is an ebb and flow to their talent. When there's an ebb, they usually start praying to God or bartering with the devil to get the slightest hint of creative ability. While I was at Robert Mckee's seminar last march, one of the best pieces of wisdom he offered us (and one which will stick with me probably for the rest of my life) is that 90% of what you write is going to be absolute shit. But you keep writing so you can get the 10% that is absolute gold.
Hopefully my diatribe hasn't swayed you from watching the twenty minutes of her talk. If you've never thought about the creative process in this way before, it's worth hearing just so you can turn it over in your head a few times. I'll give Gilbert credit for that. You're not the only one who thought that up, but keep spreading the gospel, sister, apparently that's what you're best at.
P.S. Does anyone else think she seems kind of like she's trying to look like Steve Jobs at MacWorld?
Friday, October 17, 2008
Fall Back
San Francisco is sweltering tonight. The clingy, slightly suffocating, heat that envelops the city during Indian summers feels like it's invaded my body, pulsing my arms and legs while it pushes at the seams to escape. Even though it is 1am and a work night, the city is vibrant. From the street below my kitchen window, I hear laughter and drunken banter as the bar on the corner reaches capacity. People too inebriated to leave are now hanging over the side of an elongated open window that stares out on Sutter street, and very likely, they are all smoking cigarettes. In this greenest of hippiest of most sensitive cities, there are smokers who are dirty, loud and don't hesitate to ask for a hand out; and often, they are proud of it. This is especially true when you live daringly close to a neighborhood where a stretch of piss-stained sidewalk is valuable real estate both night and day.
Yet in spite of all that below me, I am here, sitting on my bed in an apartment I love, admiring the smirk on Reese Witherspoon's face as she stares at me from the cover of this month's Vogue. I never thought I would read Vogue, I never thought I would attempt being a writer, and I never thought I would embrace complexity and uncertainty in the ways that I do now. But I don't regret any of it, and I am happier that I am trying and somewhat succeeding at taking chances, even if I will fail in the near future. One day, I'm going to look back on these lively, enigmatic days, and tell my daughter that in order to find yourself, you have to lose yourself a little bit first.
Oh, and I'm also going to tell her that living on the top floor of an older building is all sunshine and rainbows until you realize that everyone can hear every breath and move that you make, and that those flights of stairs may be cute now, but they'll be your worst enemy at the end of a long day in heels.
S brought me pomegranate seeds tonight in a bowl, and left them for me on my desk while I was chatting on the phone. It reminded me of Poppa, and how he'd cut melons, apples, pears, any fruit and leave it for me on my desk after dinner, every night, without fail. I would sit in my room with my face pressed against the computer screen, listening to the gentle swish swish of his slippers approaching on the parquet floor. All I'd hope for was that he wouldn't want a long drawn out conversation with me; but I was such an introverted adolescent by then, he knew better than to try and engage me. Instead, he would smile and lean towards me with an outstretched arm placing the bowl safely on my desk, a napkin tucked neatly underneath.
"Here you go, kiddo."
As I would mumble thank you, he'd smile, then amble back down the hallway to his favorite chair in front of the TV. If he'd timed it right, Monday Night Football would just be returning from their half-time show.
Makes me wish I'd known a little better back then, about how quickly time passes and how much life can change. Hugs, love, cocoa puffs. Thanks for everything, San Francisco. It's your people that are making all the difference.
Yet in spite of all that below me, I am here, sitting on my bed in an apartment I love, admiring the smirk on Reese Witherspoon's face as she stares at me from the cover of this month's Vogue. I never thought I would read Vogue, I never thought I would attempt being a writer, and I never thought I would embrace complexity and uncertainty in the ways that I do now. But I don't regret any of it, and I am happier that I am trying and somewhat succeeding at taking chances, even if I will fail in the near future. One day, I'm going to look back on these lively, enigmatic days, and tell my daughter that in order to find yourself, you have to lose yourself a little bit first.
Oh, and I'm also going to tell her that living on the top floor of an older building is all sunshine and rainbows until you realize that everyone can hear every breath and move that you make, and that those flights of stairs may be cute now, but they'll be your worst enemy at the end of a long day in heels.
S brought me pomegranate seeds tonight in a bowl, and left them for me on my desk while I was chatting on the phone. It reminded me of Poppa, and how he'd cut melons, apples, pears, any fruit and leave it for me on my desk after dinner, every night, without fail. I would sit in my room with my face pressed against the computer screen, listening to the gentle swish swish of his slippers approaching on the parquet floor. All I'd hope for was that he wouldn't want a long drawn out conversation with me; but I was such an introverted adolescent by then, he knew better than to try and engage me. Instead, he would smile and lean towards me with an outstretched arm placing the bowl safely on my desk, a napkin tucked neatly underneath.
"Here you go, kiddo."
As I would mumble thank you, he'd smile, then amble back down the hallway to his favorite chair in front of the TV. If he'd timed it right, Monday Night Football would just be returning from their half-time show.
Makes me wish I'd known a little better back then, about how quickly time passes and how much life can change. Hugs, love, cocoa puffs. Thanks for everything, San Francisco. It's your people that are making all the difference.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Aww
Boys are so funny.
Not in the "wah, boys are such strange creatures that I don't understand!" whiney way that, yeah I know, I have lamented in the blog before. What I mean is guys are just funny. They are creatures of entertainment, and are quick to take every opportunity to crack an inappropriate joke, or make people squirmishly uncomfortable. They have comedic timing, usually, and they're witty, hilarious, and I swear they just get away with so much more shit than women do. Look, I just typed shit, twice. You know what I think when I write shit (thrice!) in one post? I think, damn, now I look really unlady-like. I think, well great, now I'm an uncouth female writer and I'm taking cheap shots because I ran out of the really melodic, lyrical bull that I'm used to putting out in the world. I think, I seem like freaking Amy Poehler, and I don't think she's funny. I think she's crass and a little disgusting and like I'd rather rub a dead rat on my hand than watch her on TV. When a guy swears in his writing, like say in another blog that I frequent written by a certain boyperson/coworker/I bet you won't notice this for a week does, the profanity comes off not only pithy and adeptly turned, but I swear to God sometimes it sounds brilliant. Like fuck was the greatest word ever invented, or shit was the best descriptor anyone has ever used. I have never had so much aggravated language in a blog post before, and I will brazenly admit that it feels both liberating and, well, twitchy. My leg is popping up and down now. Swearing in public turns me into the squirrel from Hoodwinked.
I was reading Marie Claire which, I still think, is one of the best women's magazines out there today. It's informed, intelligent, and it makes a damn good case for being an independent, free-thinking woman. All the important "IN" words for women. But, it's really just not funny. There are polite quips and banter here and there, and the recent article about dealing with the downside of wedding season (omg, totally do not give the same gift to every bride and groom you see this year) is supposed to be so funny because they include a sidebar on how to handle nasty 911 situations, like the bride being pregnant on her wedding day. Do NOT make jokes about her belly and how she's a mommy-to-be, FYI. Holy fuck (whoo! count 6) it's just boring. But it's the kind of humor that women are accustomed to and hits right in their comfort zone. Polite giggles with your hand held over your mouth, right ladies? Throwing your head back and laughing at a magazine would be, well, in poor taste. Boys get Maxim. Boys get Details. Boys get freaking Playboy. Not saying I want naked dudes linked in with my intellectual stimulation, but when women try to put it all together it just comes off smutty. Hello, Cosmo.
The Daily Show has all dudes, right? Are there any women? I'm not a habitual watcher, so I wouldn't know. And the Colbert Report, well, duh. Okay, but you have SNL. Or Mad TV. And Tina Fey made history by becoming the first lead SNL female comedy writer. She's funny! She wrote one of my favorite movies of all time, Mean Girls, and she's the featured celebrity (because every magazine has to feature a celebrity now) in the May issue of Marie Claire. Except, Tina Fey is one of a very few smart, witty women who have managed to retain some modicum of femininity while they stay true their inner hijinx. Cybil Shepherd comes to mind as a funny woman. Candice Bergen on occasion. And even so, in my mind, the perception of them is slightly masculine. They have a fairly mannish quality to them. Take That 70's show for example. Redhead Donna, hilarious, but with a definite air of masculinity. Brunette Jackie, laugh worthy but in such a hee-hee, airhead way. So, what, being funny means you're being like a dude?
I often wonder if I can identify a female writer or male writer just by their style. In fact, reading Marie Claire today I was trying to do that. Male, Female, Female, Female. And, perhaps pleasantly surprising enough, I was wrong a few times. But only, and get this, when it was a man writing. Men can adapt female writing, but then they seem, what, gay? Women can adapt male writing, but then they seem butch. But how many female writers are there for GQ? Or Maxim? I seriously considered applying to Maxim when I was looking for jobs, but would I be giving up my liberated woman views to work for them? Verdict: yes. Application killed. But, is that holding me back? Guys will write for a women's magazine, so, why shouldn't I try writing for a men's magazine? Because I don't ever feel like I could be funny in the way that they need. I could be cute funny, and that's what it all comes down to. Men can be laugh out loud, raucous, hilarious and completely inappropriate funny. Women can be laughable, adorable, and quaint. Fucking A.
Even at the tail end of this ranty post, all I can think is, "I read my writing and think, gee, I feel like flowers and clouds after reading this." I read other people's writing, mainly male writers, and think, "Yeah, that's it, get into the gritty shit. Do it." I can't even get myself to do it -- this entry is a definite stretch for me -- so if, as a women's college educated, independent, liberal female, I'm worrying about crossing the line, someone tell me how women in general can toe the line between funny and crass without getting shit on?
I've definitely heard at least a couple guys tell me that girls will never be as funny as boys. Is it because we aren't willing to take the chances? Or because taking the chances makes us look too much like one of the dudes. Freaking gender stereotypes. I am liberated. I've made "that's what she said" jokes, albeit like twice, but I've gone there and I've done that. I've done keg stands, watched videos I never should have watched with things in places they never should have been, and I've shot guns, I like comic books and I can beat you at Street Fighter II. And I still like pink, and high heels, and make-up and snuggling.
And the next time some asshole guy slams his arm into my shoulder because he thinks I'm a prissy bitch, I'm going to turn around and knee him in the balls or punch him in the face. Cause, you know what, I am a prissy bitch.
I just wish I could figure out how to do it all without feeling like I was giving up some special, delicate, flowery part of myself.
Not in the "wah, boys are such strange creatures that I don't understand!" whiney way that, yeah I know, I have lamented in the blog before. What I mean is guys are just funny. They are creatures of entertainment, and are quick to take every opportunity to crack an inappropriate joke, or make people squirmishly uncomfortable. They have comedic timing, usually, and they're witty, hilarious, and I swear they just get away with so much more shit than women do. Look, I just typed shit, twice. You know what I think when I write shit (thrice!) in one post? I think, damn, now I look really unlady-like. I think, well great, now I'm an uncouth female writer and I'm taking cheap shots because I ran out of the really melodic, lyrical bull that I'm used to putting out in the world. I think, I seem like freaking Amy Poehler, and I don't think she's funny. I think she's crass and a little disgusting and like I'd rather rub a dead rat on my hand than watch her on TV. When a guy swears in his writing, like say in another blog that I frequent written by a certain boyperson/coworker/I bet you won't notice this for a week does, the profanity comes off not only pithy and adeptly turned, but I swear to God sometimes it sounds brilliant. Like fuck was the greatest word ever invented, or shit was the best descriptor anyone has ever used. I have never had so much aggravated language in a blog post before, and I will brazenly admit that it feels both liberating and, well, twitchy. My leg is popping up and down now. Swearing in public turns me into the squirrel from Hoodwinked.
I was reading Marie Claire which, I still think, is one of the best women's magazines out there today. It's informed, intelligent, and it makes a damn good case for being an independent, free-thinking woman. All the important "IN" words for women. But, it's really just not funny. There are polite quips and banter here and there, and the recent article about dealing with the downside of wedding season (omg, totally do not give the same gift to every bride and groom you see this year) is supposed to be so funny because they include a sidebar on how to handle nasty 911 situations, like the bride being pregnant on her wedding day. Do NOT make jokes about her belly and how she's a mommy-to-be, FYI. Holy fuck (whoo! count 6) it's just boring. But it's the kind of humor that women are accustomed to and hits right in their comfort zone. Polite giggles with your hand held over your mouth, right ladies? Throwing your head back and laughing at a magazine would be, well, in poor taste. Boys get Maxim. Boys get Details. Boys get freaking Playboy. Not saying I want naked dudes linked in with my intellectual stimulation, but when women try to put it all together it just comes off smutty. Hello, Cosmo.
The Daily Show has all dudes, right? Are there any women? I'm not a habitual watcher, so I wouldn't know. And the Colbert Report, well, duh. Okay, but you have SNL. Or Mad TV. And Tina Fey made history by becoming the first lead SNL female comedy writer. She's funny! She wrote one of my favorite movies of all time, Mean Girls, and she's the featured celebrity (because every magazine has to feature a celebrity now) in the May issue of Marie Claire. Except, Tina Fey is one of a very few smart, witty women who have managed to retain some modicum of femininity while they stay true their inner hijinx. Cybil Shepherd comes to mind as a funny woman. Candice Bergen on occasion. And even so, in my mind, the perception of them is slightly masculine. They have a fairly mannish quality to them. Take That 70's show for example. Redhead Donna, hilarious, but with a definite air of masculinity. Brunette Jackie, laugh worthy but in such a hee-hee, airhead way. So, what, being funny means you're being like a dude?
I often wonder if I can identify a female writer or male writer just by their style. In fact, reading Marie Claire today I was trying to do that. Male, Female, Female, Female. And, perhaps pleasantly surprising enough, I was wrong a few times. But only, and get this, when it was a man writing. Men can adapt female writing, but then they seem, what, gay? Women can adapt male writing, but then they seem butch. But how many female writers are there for GQ? Or Maxim? I seriously considered applying to Maxim when I was looking for jobs, but would I be giving up my liberated woman views to work for them? Verdict: yes. Application killed. But, is that holding me back? Guys will write for a women's magazine, so, why shouldn't I try writing for a men's magazine? Because I don't ever feel like I could be funny in the way that they need. I could be cute funny, and that's what it all comes down to. Men can be laugh out loud, raucous, hilarious and completely inappropriate funny. Women can be laughable, adorable, and quaint. Fucking A.
Even at the tail end of this ranty post, all I can think is, "I read my writing and think, gee, I feel like flowers and clouds after reading this." I read other people's writing, mainly male writers, and think, "Yeah, that's it, get into the gritty shit. Do it." I can't even get myself to do it -- this entry is a definite stretch for me -- so if, as a women's college educated, independent, liberal female, I'm worrying about crossing the line, someone tell me how women in general can toe the line between funny and crass without getting shit on?
I've definitely heard at least a couple guys tell me that girls will never be as funny as boys. Is it because we aren't willing to take the chances? Or because taking the chances makes us look too much like one of the dudes. Freaking gender stereotypes. I am liberated. I've made "that's what she said" jokes, albeit like twice, but I've gone there and I've done that. I've done keg stands, watched videos I never should have watched with things in places they never should have been, and I've shot guns, I like comic books and I can beat you at Street Fighter II. And I still like pink, and high heels, and make-up and snuggling.
And the next time some asshole guy slams his arm into my shoulder because he thinks I'm a prissy bitch, I'm going to turn around and knee him in the balls or punch him in the face. Cause, you know what, I am a prissy bitch.
I just wish I could figure out how to do it all without feeling like I was giving up some special, delicate, flowery part of myself.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Suppression
I haven't really smoked in a long time. And by not really smoked, I'm not talking about the social smoking that happens over drinks on patios or huddled together beneath a single coat outside a bar. I'm talking about the way I used to enjoy a clove or two or four over multiple cups of tea with T and K: sitting in K's apartment, or in the Bug or the Jeep, or going back even further, behind Stone-D in those wretched plastic deck chairs as we philosophized and enjoyed the waning warmth of my first East Coast Fall.
Growing up in Northern California gave me a perennial hatred of smoking. What was the point when there was so much clean air, so many healthy alternatives -- like biking! -- to give you a buzz instead of a cigarette? My father smoked for the majority of my (and his) life, and even as a little girl I did my damnedest to get him to quit. I still remember the first time I told Big Bro I was vaguely intrigued by it, as much as it disgusted me. I couldn't help but imagine the indefinable enjoyment that filling your lungs with a foreign substance would bring. By then, my father had quit smoking -- a result of medical problems brought on by his forty plus years inhaling carcinogens -- but, his last half full carton of cigarettes remained in the "Cabinet of Forbidden Things," just below the liquor. Big Bro grabbed an unopened pack, produced a book of matches and led me onto the patio with the single command to "smoke it." I remember blubbering on about tar in my lungs and envisioning black clouds floating morbidly in my chest. Instead of lighting up and inhaling, I stood awkwardly in front of my brother's stone cold stare and ran whatever crappy stoge my father owned beneath my nostrils while I forced myself to intake the raw, upchuck-inducing scent of tobacco. Later, I would cut that same cigarette open with my swiss army knife and sift through the leaves, trying to discern what made this otherwise mundane brown substance so life altering.
So obviously, it was rather a big deal when I picked up smoking in college. Initially it was experimental. Try it on for size and see if the inner bad girl in See would revel in it the way she'd enjoyed all the other debauchery I'd pointedly avoided in high school. Much to my disdain, I did, a lot. For the first month and a half of college I was hooked, and since then it's become both a stress and an escapist tendency which produces occasional unhealthy trysts when I'm feeling anxious, or in the case of senior year, full on semester long lapses. Since graduating though, and likely because I've spent so much more time in California living a much healthier existence, the habit has subsided and for the better part has dropped from my life completely. Unless, of course, a select few people or situations pop up which bring back the familiar yearning.
Earlier this week, Big Bro discovered an empty clove box in the glove compartment of his car. Perhaps a year ago that box would have been the inevitable unearthing of distressing anxiety levels, but funny enough this was just a forgotten remnant of this past Fall and T's visit. I have reserve boxes well hidden, but they haven't been touched since she left in October. I quit! I quit months ago and whatever flare ups there have been were negligible. For the better part I decided to leave the dirty addiction behind me and find more constructive ways to relieve tension. But since Big Bro mentioned it to me, I haven't been able to get it off my mind. Is it just because I've been a wee bit stressed and, when stressed, I crave the sweet aftertaste and momentary buzz of a clove (controlled escapism at its finest)? Or, is it because Big Bro brought an otherwise well suppressed tendency to the forefront of my mind? I've never really considered myself a smoker, and if someone asks I'll generally say no (perhaps with some addendums), but is it possible that the reality is I'm actually a smoker pretending to be a non-smoker?
When we've managed to suppress or control a desire, a tendency, or an otherwise unattractive aspect of ourselves that we loathe, that doesn't mean it's disappeared. It still exists, floating patiently in the tiny corner its been relegated to, and I assume, waiting for whatever previously created synapse to fire which will bring it to the surface. Arguably, these could be referred to as "gut reactions" or "instincts" right? If I wasn't talking about smoking, couldn't I just pass this off as genetic inclination? My father was a smoker, my quasi-addiction is just an instinctual development of some kind. Hrm, there's a claim that's going to garner a lot of smacks. From the few psych studies I've read, like this one in the nytimes, supposedly our knee-jerk responses, or "gut reactions," are from years of not only evolution but of our own personal experience. Which means we're simply taking situational and circumstantial evidence and instantaneously comparing it to a backlog of information we've stored in our brains. Your immediate response is based on years of conscious or unconscious observations. But what happens now, after we've learned how to suppress and ignore even the strongest reactions we feel? Doesn't it imply that, at a very basic level, we've taught ourselves as an entire race not to trust ourselves and therefore not to be ourselves?
While this may seem like some well-formed argument to start smoking again, it's not. It's just curious to think about all the daily reactions we -- okay, I -- have and whether or not many of them are unfounded. Of late, a lot of my knee-jerk responses have been unfortunately tuned incorrectly. What I believe is something similar to X situation from my past, is actually something entirely different, often times contrary to what I originally thought. Is this what growing up means? Questioning everything you know and wondering whether it's even remotely correct? Humans are so smart now they can outsmart themselves.
A wise friend told me the other day, it's not necessarily how we recognize something as good or bad, or even how long it takes us to recognize it; it's the actions we take after we've recognized it that define us. Cue Michael Cane and Christian Bale circa 2005. Smoke, yes? Smoke, no. Bitch-smack girl, yes? Bitch-smack girl, no.
Ah well, much though cloves kept me company throughout college, looks like they're going to stay stuck in their nasty little boxes hidden away for the rest of time. Or, you know, until I have a phenomenally large freak-out that reminds me of X so much, I can't control myself.
What? Like you've never given in before. Geeze.
Growing up in Northern California gave me a perennial hatred of smoking. What was the point when there was so much clean air, so many healthy alternatives -- like biking! -- to give you a buzz instead of a cigarette? My father smoked for the majority of my (and his) life, and even as a little girl I did my damnedest to get him to quit. I still remember the first time I told Big Bro I was vaguely intrigued by it, as much as it disgusted me. I couldn't help but imagine the indefinable enjoyment that filling your lungs with a foreign substance would bring. By then, my father had quit smoking -- a result of medical problems brought on by his forty plus years inhaling carcinogens -- but, his last half full carton of cigarettes remained in the "Cabinet of Forbidden Things," just below the liquor. Big Bro grabbed an unopened pack, produced a book of matches and led me onto the patio with the single command to "smoke it." I remember blubbering on about tar in my lungs and envisioning black clouds floating morbidly in my chest. Instead of lighting up and inhaling, I stood awkwardly in front of my brother's stone cold stare and ran whatever crappy stoge my father owned beneath my nostrils while I forced myself to intake the raw, upchuck-inducing scent of tobacco. Later, I would cut that same cigarette open with my swiss army knife and sift through the leaves, trying to discern what made this otherwise mundane brown substance so life altering.
So obviously, it was rather a big deal when I picked up smoking in college. Initially it was experimental. Try it on for size and see if the inner bad girl in See would revel in it the way she'd enjoyed all the other debauchery I'd pointedly avoided in high school. Much to my disdain, I did, a lot. For the first month and a half of college I was hooked, and since then it's become both a stress and an escapist tendency which produces occasional unhealthy trysts when I'm feeling anxious, or in the case of senior year, full on semester long lapses. Since graduating though, and likely because I've spent so much more time in California living a much healthier existence, the habit has subsided and for the better part has dropped from my life completely. Unless, of course, a select few people or situations pop up which bring back the familiar yearning.
Earlier this week, Big Bro discovered an empty clove box in the glove compartment of his car. Perhaps a year ago that box would have been the inevitable unearthing of distressing anxiety levels, but funny enough this was just a forgotten remnant of this past Fall and T's visit. I have reserve boxes well hidden, but they haven't been touched since she left in October. I quit! I quit months ago and whatever flare ups there have been were negligible. For the better part I decided to leave the dirty addiction behind me and find more constructive ways to relieve tension. But since Big Bro mentioned it to me, I haven't been able to get it off my mind. Is it just because I've been a wee bit stressed and, when stressed, I crave the sweet aftertaste and momentary buzz of a clove (controlled escapism at its finest)? Or, is it because Big Bro brought an otherwise well suppressed tendency to the forefront of my mind? I've never really considered myself a smoker, and if someone asks I'll generally say no (perhaps with some addendums), but is it possible that the reality is I'm actually a smoker pretending to be a non-smoker?
When we've managed to suppress or control a desire, a tendency, or an otherwise unattractive aspect of ourselves that we loathe, that doesn't mean it's disappeared. It still exists, floating patiently in the tiny corner its been relegated to, and I assume, waiting for whatever previously created synapse to fire which will bring it to the surface. Arguably, these could be referred to as "gut reactions" or "instincts" right? If I wasn't talking about smoking, couldn't I just pass this off as genetic inclination? My father was a smoker, my quasi-addiction is just an instinctual development of some kind. Hrm, there's a claim that's going to garner a lot of smacks. From the few psych studies I've read, like this one in the nytimes, supposedly our knee-jerk responses, or "gut reactions," are from years of not only evolution but of our own personal experience. Which means we're simply taking situational and circumstantial evidence and instantaneously comparing it to a backlog of information we've stored in our brains. Your immediate response is based on years of conscious or unconscious observations. But what happens now, after we've learned how to suppress and ignore even the strongest reactions we feel? Doesn't it imply that, at a very basic level, we've taught ourselves as an entire race not to trust ourselves and therefore not to be ourselves?
While this may seem like some well-formed argument to start smoking again, it's not. It's just curious to think about all the daily reactions we -- okay, I -- have and whether or not many of them are unfounded. Of late, a lot of my knee-jerk responses have been unfortunately tuned incorrectly. What I believe is something similar to X situation from my past, is actually something entirely different, often times contrary to what I originally thought. Is this what growing up means? Questioning everything you know and wondering whether it's even remotely correct? Humans are so smart now they can outsmart themselves.
A wise friend told me the other day, it's not necessarily how we recognize something as good or bad, or even how long it takes us to recognize it; it's the actions we take after we've recognized it that define us. Cue Michael Cane and Christian Bale circa 2005. Smoke, yes? Smoke, no. Bitch-smack girl, yes? Bitch-smack girl, no.
Ah well, much though cloves kept me company throughout college, looks like they're going to stay stuck in their nasty little boxes hidden away for the rest of time. Or, you know, until I have a phenomenally large freak-out that reminds me of X so much, I can't control myself.
What? Like you've never given in before. Geeze.
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