Alright, so.....I am supposed to be honest so I will be. I guess I do as I'm told. I woke up this morning, rubbed my eyes with the unnerving feeling that my roommates had left the house over an hour earlier. But, they are getting fat checks so no bother to feel TOO guilty, as my "part-time job" so far has paid me nothing for the HUNDREDS (dare I say thousands?) of hours I have been enslaved to its creation. So, I decided I would take a trip to the library given my particularly flexible schedule. I was gathering up Dylan Thomas, throwing him on top of D.H. Lawrence while slipping in the fabulousness of Gertrude Stein. While I gathered six wonderful books, including the one I LOVED about the friendship between Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, I found myself pondering....
Why am I so reluctant to let GO of books? In every city, most small towns even, these books are readily available and in circulation. And yet, I find myself wanting to OWN OWN OWN them. I have grown used to how their spines rest on my dresser, how the colors of their covers add contrast to the others. It is like a big messy painting over there, and when I remove even one, their is a significant loss in vibrancy.
I would like this to be the ONLY reason. But, if we are being honest, then I to admit that a part of me wants people to KNOW what I read. For them to see a copy of Dante or Kundera and know that I have read them, digested them. ICK. That is painful to even write. But, it's true, isn't it? I mean, I think a lot of people feel this way, which doesn't validate it in any way, but it does make it a much more interesting topic to delve into.
Think about it. We are choosing books based on the complete trajectory of not only the great literary canon (which is painfully limiting) but also by how the books represent US. They tell people how smart we are, how meta-cognitive, how worldly and well-travelled. They even tell about our fantasy life; can you be swept up in the allegories of C.S. Lewis? Facebook, mass-produced clothing, Target, you are constantly trying to chisel the individual statue that is you. You want to look so effortlessly polished and unique that sometimes the statue becomes too thin in places, from over-exertion, and it begins to disintegrate.
I am guilty of this too. Certainly the US heightens this feeling of wanting to be ORIGINAL. But why do we pine for it, when it is already innately true? My fingerprints are the most rare things in existence, because they can not be replicated or copied or seen on anyone or anything out there. But somehow, I want someone to see an old floral Victorian chair and think, "That is so Kristen."
Strange, because no inanimate object can BE me. Only I can.
Why are we playing this elaborate game of cut and paste, where we run around trying to glue claim on simple things? My hands feel sticky from it, and sometimes the scissors slice too deep and we end up losing more of ourselves than we intended; all while trying to claim territory for our selves. We can't just shove a flag into a style or song and say it is ours, that it is the reflection of some fickle piece of our soul. It is just ridiculous and, dare I say, SHAMELESSLY self-indulgent.
But I am guilty of this a thousand times over. Every day, every minute, I am trying to cultivate a uniqueness when all I really want is to feel a sameness with someone else.
So for today, I will drop the library books off, push them away like precious jewels into the unyielding tide, and I won't look back because there are thousands more waiting, breathing on the shelves, for me to choose them and bring them home into the cozy nook of my room.
Maybe this time I will read them as they are, and hate them or love them based on the guttural, not the societal. I can let them speak to me, in whatever language escapes the dusty lips of the page, and I will listen.
(We can dream, can't we?)
No comments:
Post a Comment