The Attic

11-07-97: Sex and Poetry
11-16-97: The Knowledge You Need to Know
11-26-97: Feeding the Heart
12-22-97: A Christmas Carol

December 22, 1997- This is the seventh installment of the Random Room. Happy holidays! Joy and peace to all!
I apologize for the non-randomness of the previous Random Room. Love is a crucial philosophical and psychological point, but well, I just wrote it to snag a man. Which I did, eventually, and I'm happy, but you all are probably tired of hearing that... :)
Anyway, regardless of my personal life, this Random Room is about being content. That's not a subject I thought I'd ever be able to write about with a straight face (trust me, I'm entirely deadpan right now) mostly because of my inherent pessimism. Being satisfied with what I have is somewhat medieval to me. Change, change, change, that's all that matters, because there's always a bigger piece of the pie, there's always a better bed of grass, and if I put my mind to it, I can get it. Why stay in the Dark Ages when there's a whole new world out there to conquer?
The problem with that mentality is that it's hard to stop. When does the mountain get big enough? When is the prize prestigious enough? At what point does "perfect" become reality?
And that's the problem. Perfection doesn't exist.
Of course, you can err in the other direction. I do that frequently; it's called procrastination. I think I'll study for a B this time. I think I'll settle for a shoddier job. I think I'll just lie back, relax, and be *satisfied* with what I've got. Right? Well, not really. That's being lazy. That's not counting your blessings.
In the end, counting your blessing *is* the point. It's not lying back and taking what's coming. It's not grasping for something unreachable. It's working to wake up every day and even if it sucks, which happens in life, more often than not, BEING THANKFUL ANYWAY. I'm not talking about waking up to a Christmas or Hannukah present and then thinking about all the poor kids who don't have anything, although that is a compassionate thing to do. It's forcing yourself to feel good about *your* life.
Sounds terrible, doesn't it? Well, it is. Really. It's not an easy thing. Most of us don't have good lives. Most of us are not perfect. There *is* always room for improvement. There is always the need for the world around us to make sense for once, damnit, instead of being a place where moms and puppies die. Feeling good about yourself is hard work without all the oppression.
Amazingly, especially in America, there are a lot of people who are happy anyway. Sure, some of them are disgustingly, honey-butter-drippingly enthused. But most of them have problems. Most of them aren't optimistic people. Lemme write that again. Most of them *aren't* optimists.
And that's the trick. That's the Christmas carol. You can be Ebenezer and still be happy. Some people need a few other things to get there, like someone to love, or a friend, or God, or a mission in life, or a family. It's a matter of turning down the background noise, and hearing the real tune. Regarding my personal life again, it's not about whether or not every last thing will work out and we'll live happily ever after; it's about the awe of feeling and sharing love and living happily now.
Of course I'm a hypocrite. I wouldn't have written this if I weren't feeling happy. But I still remember all the other times when I thought it was too dark to go on, and that scrap of hope, that ability to get out of bed every morning on a wing and a prayer got me through. You never know when you'll need that reserve of happiness. Or when somebody else needs a piece of it.
Try it. Force yourself. It's the best exercise you'll ever get... for your heart.

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November 26, 1997- This is the sixth installment of the Random Room. Since last week I ranted about the power of the intellect, this week's plate will be heaped with the food of the heart. All the quotes come from A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, by James Joyce. I find that I'm identifying with the main character, Stephen Dedalus, who finds his destiny in the artistry, and sacrifice, of writing.
"-She too wants me to catch hold of her, he thought. That's why she came with me to the tram. I could easily catch hold of her when she comes to my step: nobody is looking. I could hold her and kiss her.
"But he did neither: and, when he was sitting alone in the deserted tram, he tore his ticket into shreds and stared gloomily at the corrugated cardboard." Once upon a time, I thought love was a game, a hunt that I would never win. Then I found out how terrible it was to be the hunted one, to be in the sway of someone who really didn't know what was happening deep inside. For two months, I learned how to hate. It wasn't a new lesson; I'd always had the tools. All the tendrils I had extended in previous months withdrew, and I began to write nonstop. I learned how to wring the best stuff out of life without being hurt by it, the cardinal rule for any aspiring writer. A good writer is a good watcher. Stephen never joined in any group activities so he could spend his time observing. In life, I myself have only joined in as far as it suited me. In those two months, I learned how to be a survivor, but I lost almost all vestiges of my innocence. Love wasn't a game anymore; it was a connection to be made, an opportunity to be taken. Or lost. I suddenly knew how to live and how to be a good artist, but for me it would be a life alone, and all my precious writing would have to be forged in solitude.
At least, that's what I thought at the time. The secret self I'd guarded all those years never lost its childlike wonder and trust. It just went into hibernation. Protected by my most powerful instinct: fear. I admit, I am a creature of fear. I was once told that bravery is not living without fear, but living with it, and I took it to heart. Fear helped me put myself first, but it also closed off my deepest emotions, away from my own reach.
"You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake and perhaps as long as eternity too." No, I'm not afraid of loneliness. But I yearn to escape it. And as my secret self awakens, when I stand tongue-tied where once speech came easily, when my stride falters when before it was quick and confident, when my once-cold hands grow slick and warm with sweat, I know it is possible. I haven't been this happy in years. In fact, I don't think I've really felt this much for so long. But, as always, the feeling is tempered by fear. Awesome, paralyzing fear. It was so easy when I was only playing the game, when lust was the only objective. Now, confronted by something which I dare not name... I fear what I do not understand. I understand that it is a wonderful, fulfilling feeling, that everything in me gravitates towards it, recognizing something real and true. Still, the fear is always there; it reminds me of all the other illusions I created for myself and how I misled myself. Certainty was never a part of this deal.
I know this sounds rather melodramatic. This voice of mine doesn't talk in grays; it only sees the colors of the rainbow. I haven't heard this girl in a long time. This girl is my heart. And if I can find a place for her, if I can prove to myself that I can follow my dream of becoming a writer without sacrificing my heart, then I can banish those fears to my subconscious, where they came from.
"[Mother] prays now, she says, that I may learn in my own life and away from home and friends what the heart is and what it feels. Amen. So be it." Maybe then, I can name it. And write all the poems I've never had the heart to write.

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November 16, 1997- This is the fifth installment of the Random Room. Today I read a conversation between two acquaintances of mine, in which one was arguing that most of the earth's oxygen came from trees and the other was saying the oceans produced it. The latter couldn't pinpoint her source with certainty, but she was sure she was right.
She is right. The earth's present atmosphere came from the armies of microscopic algae over billions of years of expelling oxygen. But that wasn't what ticked me off. This debate apparently went on for days, neither side yielding, both somehow unable to confirm their positions. Now I know how hard it is to change a person's mind. I believe that a mix of nature and nurture make us respond in a certain way to a certain environment. But these are facts for pete's sake! So it made me mad that 1) they couldn't find it in themselves to find out a rather simple fact about our world, and 2) they were being subjective about something that was objective, 3) they continued to disagree rather vehemently on that very point.
The first thing really pushes my buttons, especially given that my audience is likely to be living in the United States, the land of free public education. Perhaps not the best in the world, but hey, that's what library cards and the YMCA are for. Yet people don't use them. Or don't know about all the resources. Or just plain don't give a damn. I can hear my mother saying, "Why did God give you a brain anyway? So it can just hang there?" There are people in other countries who work all their lives to see their children educated, who live hand-to-mouth just to pay the tuition. And no, lack of intelligence is not a valid excuse. How can it be? How do you know how smart you are anyway? Did you ever find out? Did you ever try to read every book in the library to see how far you could go before you stopped understanding the Faulkners? I see books out there about "what every child ought to know" and I shudder. Why the hell don't these kids know already? It's practically child abuse to keep that kind of common sense knowledge from a child. To brush off every question about the world. To value money over knowledge. But hey, everyone else is equally dense, who cares?
So, these days, people know so little stuff that they don't know what's fact and what's opinion. Fine. Argue that women are the weaker species. Expound on the evils of the Internet. Degrade the linguistic roots of African-American dialects. Just don't introduce any facts, please (the trees really do make most of the earth's oxygen), they don't really matter, only my emotions matter and I'M NOT WRONG. People do that because they're ignorant, which then extends their ignorance to unimaginable lengths. No, actually, people do that because they feel powerless. Knowledge is power; not power in the sense of the despot, but power in the sense of knowing exactly how many chemical weapons that despot has, that despot's history of human rights abuses, and the diplomatic consequences of challenging him with force. If you don't buy that, well, don't you want to know how the world, not some other world but this world you're living in works? People are afraid of what they don't understand, so they throw it out and take the plunge anyway. The Internet is big and scary, therefore it must be locked up and barred. What's lacking is the logic and the science. And just because you can't win at Trivial Pursuit doesn't mean you're powerless. Trivial Pursuit is a boardgame. It's like strutting down a minefield. It's trivial. You don't need to know everything. You just need to know what you, well, need to know. The more the better. It's better to be armed with a nuclear bomb than a peashooter. If somebody's got a bigger arsenal than you, well, maybe you've got something he doesn't. If you don't have much... you're screwed. In good company, too.
This whole argument of mine is rather charged with emotion. But (hopefully) it's easy to pick out the opinion and the fact. My friends arguing about the earth's main source of oxygen couldn't get away from it. They went on, mindlessly attacking each other on the basis of a phony fact. I have a problem with that. Though I know I am severely lacking in the faculty, I think most people should have more common sense than that. Common sense is the basis of science. You observe, record, conclude. Now, science admits to itself, in most cases, that everything that's proven fact now could be wrong because common sense only goes so far. But common sense is certainly better than saying something doesn't exist simply because you don't believe it's right. That's where the wars start. People who can't or won't keep their facts straight skip that step and go straight to emotion. Fact means nothing; it's just more propaganda to manipulate. I'm not saying facts must dictate everything. I'm saying emotions are a legitimate step in the whole process, namely after, and not before, the conclusion.
I guess it really tears me apart that people just don't know how the world really works. It's so selfish to behave as if the rest of the world doesn't matter. One ought to know that one year equals one complete revolution of the Earth around the Sun. Yet most Americans had no idea. It's not just the shame that goes with that ignorance that's detrimental, it's the lack of power, the lack of survival skills. I think everyone needs to know the basics of everything, and keep learning something every day. It seems a pity to waste that sliver of brain we do have. After all, if we don't have the basics down, are we just going to let that gray matter shrivel up in the sun?

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November 7, 1997: This is the fourth installment of the Random Room. As most of you with the dubious distinction of knowing me may have noticed, when the test-to-day ratio goes up, the number of website revisions goes down. Thank you for your patience.
Well, last Random Room, I tackled the subject of death, so this time (being of the legal age to have sex with anyone I want) the Random Room turns to sex. Not literally, you pervs, I'm just discussing it.
Those of you who know me may be thinking, 'C'mon, Tracy, that's redundant. You talk about sex all the time anyway.' Granted, that may be the case. But I'm not talking about the act of sex; you could find a textbook that discusses that. It's the idea of sex that bothers me.
Now I'll admit, I have a lot of problems with the idea of sex. I'm sure most of you do too. As Minnie Driver said so eloquently to Chris O'Donnell, "Sometimes it's like sticking your finger up my nose." This isn't even some kind of societal programming. It's just icky, for lack of a better word. The supposed noble motive behind it, true and unyielding love, isn't that strange to us. Even the supposed nasty motive behind it, bestial need, is something most of us can relate to. But the sex itself, well, I don't think it can be accounted for. And that brings me to poetry.
You see, my main problem with sex is that it can't be related to in poetry. If you look at poetry about sex, the sex is the object, not the meanings. So it could be talking about the idea of submission, or freedom, or abuse, or pleasure, or pain, or true love, or bestial need. It's never really about the sex. After all, we close our eyes when we kiss; who wants to look at sex? Sex is in the brain, after all. It's like talking about music. We don't want to talk about the amount of spit that's on the carpet after the trombones are emptied. We want to talk about the feeling the music gave us.
I still don't feel comfortable about poetry's limitations, especially in the area of sex. I'd like to think that I can pour my heart out in poetry on any subject, truly, honestly, and yet I can't deny that there's a distance between poetry and sex. As a writer that's extremely frustrating. Here's something that's completely poetic, that millions of poets write poems about, yet it's impossible to write about it.
Maybe I just need to face up to it: sex is not poetry. Sex isn't even an idea. I suppose, when I'm older, I'll have a better handle on the problem. In the meantime, I'm stuck with the problem: which is the clearer speech, poetry or body language?

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