--- Walt Whitman, "Leaves of Grass"
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I was thinking about the poem I wrote Dec. 7th, which I consider intense and moody; and my rebuttal on Dec. 8th, which I consider flippant and a bit silly. Those are both me. I am someone who wants to ask a question that changes someone's life in some way; I want the answer in a way that reveals their essence. Then I turn around and break the silence in a squeaky voice that owes to classic Chicago children's television.
I do not look like either of the people introduced above as they look in the common imagination. My intense, moody self should look pale and slender in Gothic black lace and blood-red fingernails. My silly self should look like the manic pixie dream girl trope: Young and bouncy with clothing that looks like a hipster Raggedy Ann doll. Both of these selves will have to deal with dwelling inside a middle-aged woman with short, spiked hair, nerdy glasses, and a style called "classic" in the fashion industry. Except for today, when I'm wearing an ugly Christmas sweater and a string of flashing Christmas lights.
I probably contain more multitudes than this; everyone does, but as you're not aware of the multitudes I contain, I am not aware of the multitudes you contain.
I do not look like either of the people introduced above as they look in the common imagination. My intense, moody self should look pale and slender in Gothic black lace and blood-red fingernails. My silly self should look like the manic pixie dream girl trope: Young and bouncy with clothing that looks like a hipster Raggedy Ann doll. Both of these selves will have to deal with dwelling inside a middle-aged woman with short, spiked hair, nerdy glasses, and a style called "classic" in the fashion industry. Except for today, when I'm wearing an ugly Christmas sweater and a string of flashing Christmas lights.
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| I wasn't kidding. |
I probably contain more multitudes than this; everyone does, but as you're not aware of the multitudes I contain, I am not aware of the multitudes you contain.
We often don't know the multitudes we ourselves contain, and we're afraid to name them ourselves. As much as we don't like to look at our inner Shadow, we also don't want to claim our fantastic inner selves -- the hero/ine, the rock star, the vamp, the Lady in Red -- for fear that we will look ridiculous. We want someone else to give us a nickname. We want someone else to tell us who we remind them of. We want to define ourselves through the meaning that someone else gives to us. We want to see how they see us, because if we admitted we saw ourselves that way, people would laugh.
Sometimes we're disappointed if our friends see us in the most prosaic way. I once asked a boyfriend "Why do you love me?" His response: "You're useful for some things." My multitudes wanted to kick his butt.
The more fantastic of our multitudes often live unrecognized until we find a way to try them on. Reading, dance, acting, writing, music, oral storytelling, fantasy -- any way we can try on that other self safely.
When I write, I see myself as that older, intense, provocative woman who asks the questions that change people's lives. Men fall a little bit in love with me. It's just fantasy, but the fact that I can see that suggests it's a solid part of my inner landscape and a sample of the multitudes I contain.
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The fact that I'm writing songs, poetry, and philosophical treatises means:
a) I'm procrastinating from grading
b) I'm procrastinating from writing my book
c) a and b above
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