6:19 p.m. | 2005-01-01
I Guess It's Love
It's a frustrating moment when you fall so far into self deprecation that you can't figure out why you're there in the first place.
It makes me wonder, sometimes, why I do things and why I feel certain ways. I remember quickly, though, that it really doesn't matter. The purpose behind my actions is of minimal consequence to me. What really matters, then, is the action itself.
It wouldn't be a far stretch for me to say that I'm proud of very little in my life.
Yes, I did write a 34 page research essay on Khrushchev�s responsibility for the fall of Russian Communism. I wrote it the 3 days before it was due, though. And it wasn't my absolute best writing. I could have had someone read it over and tell me that my topics weren't connecting smoothly.
Yes, I can sit down with you and discuss the ethics of Mersault's decision in Albert Camus' The Stranger. And I can compare his theory to Nihilism through not only his own experiences (and the absurd murder of the Arab) but through my own.
Yes, I did treat my friends well. I loved them, and was there for them, and bought them shiny presents. I was aware of their needs/wants/desires and I satiated those they couldn't fix themselves.
But, again, I can't say that I'm proud of most of the things I've done. I wrote this paper one year about a comparison of Raskolnikov to another character and I took the stand of validification for the two murders. I compared it, in theory, to some book from the 60's. I can't even remember the title. The paper is most likely stashed on my computer somewhere but...I could have been one of those kids that people knew.
Freshman year. English class. All 120 of us have the same teacher, divided into six periods. We're told to pick a sonnet and "explicate it." Keep in mind half of us didn't know what thesis sentences were and we had just finished writing 25 pages of small essays on our summer reading. Everyone attempted the task.
The day he returned them I remember clearly. He was cute, had dimpled cheeks, but was country. And he was harsh. Harsh on us. He thought we were better than this. He was upset. He picked the top paper from the stacks and began to read. "In the second quatrain he explains the normal effect of deception on an average person. However, in the third quatrain Shakespeare explains why he can�t see that his love is cheating on him. And within the couplet Shakespeare reverses roles and accuses her of not being as perfect as she seems. Throughout the entire poem he tells discreetly what happens to make us so blind and not know or be aware of what is going on around us. Through the figurative language, imagery, and poetic wording Shakespeare beautifully displays the hazards of love."
The whole class, who had written on sonnets from Romeo and Juliet, or more obvious things, sat and waited. He paused and sighed a little. He looked up at all of us, "Sure, it's a little rough, but you all can write this well. You all can put things this carefully and dance on subjects just like Lauren did." My jaw dropped.
I didn't recognize my own paper.
The rest of my high school career everyone came to me for writing advice. I edited papers like it was my job. Everyone's favorite reader. But myself? I think I re-read about 3 of my papers before turning them in. Keep in mind I turned in about 80 papers in my high school career. Sometimes I even overlooked spell-check.
My problem is that I've always been that way. I've always avoided my own abilities. I could have written beautifully. I could have been analytical and harsh.
Instead my vocabulary falls apart daily and I can't put two words together coherently.
It just hurts to watch yourself when you know you could do so much better.
