Gnaw Thyself

A while back, Masked Mom reviewed the movie, Catfish. So intrigued was I that I immediately reserved it at the library. I won't go into the details of the movie, you'll just have to watch it, but at it's heart, it's about who we are versus how we represent ourselves. It also explores the idea of online socializing, online personae and how these things can become tricky. This is part one of the worm that has been gnawing at the back of my brain.

A while back I had a discussion with a fellow blogger in which I tried to explain that because of the nature of blogging, there is a potentially wide gulf for misunderstanding between blogger and reader. My writing style tends to be somewhat intense and lends a feeling of intimacy with the reader. I have been accused of being manipulative and duplicitous because of this, but that is not ever the intention. I mostly write pictures of things, I paint a thought I want to explore, I want to draw the reader into that thought and swim around in it for a while. People write for a number of reasons, in infinitely different styles. This style just happens to be mine. I like the interior view and I'm not a very good storyteller, so there you have it. This is part two of the worm. Chomp chomp.

I'm reading Jonathan Lethem's Ecstasy of Influence right now. The book explores the relationship of the writer to his own writing, to the writing of others, to the art, music, and presence of others, to the writer's world, both interior and exterior and how all of these things influence each other almost inexplicably. One of the most fascinating ideas that keeps recurring throughout the book is the notion of what Lethem calls his "public avatar". He writes novels, essays, and articles, many of which contain personal information about him, about his childhood, about his life. One could conceivably sit down and piece together a timeline of his life based on his published work. One could also know how intensely he felt about different events and people throughout that timeline. He does interviews on television, on the radio, and in print. In many of these interviews he answers personal questions about himself. All of this lends fans the idea that they "know" Lethem. His reaction to compiling this public/private information about himself, from himself, is interesting. It is a separate Lethem. It is the Lethem that readers know. It is not the man himself. This is the end of that brain worm that is now crapping out this halting essay.

Where, exactly, in this whole mess is the Self? How often do we presume knowledge of another person based on scant evidence? What if the evidence is copious but not complete? Would the evidence ever be complete? I can confidently say that my husband knows me better than anyone else. One of the things that I have adored about him from the start is that I can be fully "myself" around him. I have maybe two or three other friends with whom I feel the same. I have plenty of friends with whom I feel comfortable and amiable, but I spare them the full disclosure. I have someone I consider a dear friend, whom I have never actually met in person. I am completely open and candid on a variety of subjects in our written communication, but there again, is it complete? Is it possible to know someone without having ever spent time in their physical presence? There are people in my life with whom I spent way too much time in person, but never really got to know who they were. There are several men that I've dated that never, ever even had the tiniest idea who I was. All of these people, however, see me in different lights. Their assessments of my characteristics would overlap to some degree, but would each paint slightly skewed pictures. If this makes me duplicitous and manipulative, then so be it. But I don't think I would be alone in wearing those descriptors.

Perhaps the Self is the person we, and we alone, know? Fair enough. But do you know anyone who seems to be completely deluded about their Self? A talkative person who says "I'm shy." An intense and tightly wound person who tells you that they are easy going? Who has made the errant perception? You or your friend? Are they perhaps privy to interior information to which you have no access? On the other hand, I have known several people throughout my lifetime who spent a great deal of time and energy telling people how wonderful they were. This is a behavior I find off-putting and strange, but in almost every case, people believed them. "Oh, So-and-So? She's wonderful." I have nearly bitten off my tongue to keep from asking "Why?" Is it just that this sort of person is better at PR? Or are they really as wonderful as they tell everyone they are and I just can't see it? Maybe it's just me, but I find the greater the dissonance between my perception of a person and what they say they are, the less I like them. In these types of situations, is it I or they who don't know that Self?

Is this whole concept of Self further muddied by our assorted profiles and online accounts? Blogging is a relatively new means of communication. It's less personal than an email, longer than a status update, and virtually limitless in its reach and subject matter. We post the pictures on Facebook of the days when everyone's smiling. We list the preferences and hobbies that we want. We expose only the dirty secrets that we feel like exposing, some not at all. We use screen names, acronyms, nicknames, pseudonyms. We tell stories, divulge information, give the impression of intimacy, but there's a difference, isn't there? For one, I think it would be pretty boring to look in on people's every move. "Going to the can now, probably should bring a magazine." We paint with broad brushstrokes the pictures we want others to see: for some it's a constant string of dramas, a litany of woes; for others it's the opposite - everything's great, the children are adorable and I never sweat. For most of us, it's something in between. Does all of this add another layer to the Self that didn't exist ten years ago? Or is it just a digitized facet of something that was already there?

I have no definitive answers to any of these questions, in case you were wondering. They've just been composting back in the waste heap of my brain and I throw the worms on when they come up and they gnaw away, turning it over and over, hopefully into something more viable. If I had to hazard a guess, I would suppose that the true Self lies somewhere in the middle of the perception gap. That if we took all of these varying accounts and lay them one over the other like overheads on a projector (remember those) that the picture that emerged would probably surprise us all. Maybe most of all, my Self.


This was written for GBE2's topic this week: Self

Them!

My dad told me once that the scariest movie he ever saw as a child was Them!.

According to the synoposis on IMDb,  "The earliest atomic tests in New Mexico cause common ants to mutate into giant man-eating monsters that threaten civilization." 

My dad saw it at a nickel matinee in a base theater when he was about 9 years old and reportedly had trouble sleeping for weeks afterward. Besides my fascination with the notion of such freedom at such a tender age, I was appalled with the revelation that anything had ever scared my dad. While I could completely relate to being terrified by giant, man-eating ants, it was more terrifying to me that my hero had at some point shared my childish fears. 

With the advent of the BetaMax, we kids were initiated into the world of movies my dad had witnessed on the silver screen. I remember watching the movie with my jaded, post-Star Wars eyes and finding the special effects laughable and the dialogue melodramatic and stilted. This is what had scared my dad? At the time I chalked it up to one of those quaint 50s phenomena like pearls and shirtwaist dresses and watched Time Bandits instead. 


Last night as I was falling asleep, I was thinking about this - for that is the time when one thinks of such things. Snuggled into my grown-up, post-modern bed, in my grown-up post-modern head, it struck me that the title of that movie - Them! - is the scariest of all. We are all afraid of Them. It is Them that keeps us up at night worrying about what lurks beyond our vision. 


What do They think of me? They said the best thing I should do for my kids is... They say that high fructose corn syrup is bad for me... They might think I'm insane if I... They say the best jeans for my body shape is... They say things about haircuts, health problems, grieving, death, loving, diet, diapering, you name it. They name it. I don't want to disappoint Them. It's not even as tangible as large man-eating ants. It's something even more laughable, really. It's our perceived audience of judges, informants, advisers, expert witnesses, and admirers. Because, don't you know, They don't have anything better to do with Their time than to scrutinize my every thought and action and pass judgement. 


There's the other Them, too. The evil other half of Us and Them. They don't live like we do. They are a threat to me. They don't believe this. They are responsible for this mess. They don't get it. They are to be feared. We are not Them. I'm so glad I'm not like Them. It's our ability to turn people, with one large stroke of  a paintbrush, into two dimensional, larger than life man-eating ants. It's the sort of thinking that helps us sleep at night, comfortable in our own designated circle of Us that, thank our lucky stars, is nothing like Them.


The 1954 version of Them! is a Cold War movie. Remember that umbrella of fear we used to live under? The threat of nuclear annihilation? of Communism? of scary people who looked just like us only wore more utilitarian gray? The era that brought us such gems as Do The Russians Love Their Children, Too? (shame on you, Sting!) and Dr. Strangelove (thank you, Stanley Kubrik!) and that after-school special of doom, The Day After (what?! Just... what?!). We look back fondly and laugh. Such silliness. Such paranoia. Really?! Imagine... quaking in your bed because there might be a domino effect and the whole world might become Communist and there will be vaporization?! My dad shuddered in fear at age 9 under the threat of giant insects. I shuddered in fear at age 9 under the threat of giant bread lines. I'm so glad we've all grown past that sort of nonsense.


Imagine if the Cold War had internet access. Do we even know what wars We're fighting now? I'm not talking about the ones We fight with heavy machinery and tax dollars. Stay At Home Moms vs. Working Moms, Lefties vs. Conservatives, Breasts vs. Bottles, Beatles vs. Stones, Green vs. Guzzling, Luddites vs. Techno-Babies, Vegans vs. Carnivores, Locavores vs. WalMart Shoppers, Natural vs. Synthetic, Coke vs. Pepsi, Literacy vs. Reality TV, Cut vs. Uncut, Apple vs. PC, Christian vs. Athiest, Agnostic vs. Believers, American vs. Imported, Immigrated This Century vs. Descendant of Immigrants, Legalization vs. Prohibition. I've forgotten some on purpose.


We've all hidden in our ideological bomb shelters at one time or another. We've donned the tin foil hats and duct taped our mental windows to keep Them out. It's human nature to hang out with people who like us, who are like us, and who affirm what we believe. The unknown and the misunderstood are naturally a little scary. But when does it become childish fear of things laughable, melodramatic, and stilted? In a world that 1954 only dreamed of, we all have global information literally at our fingertips. How will we use this amazing tool? To erase dividing lines and realize that regardless of ideology most of us are just doing our thing and trying to do it the best way we know how? Or to further divide and categorize and demonize until we finally move from Us and Them to simply Me?


Me. Frozen in that cinematic silent scream, hands raised, backed in a corner and immobilized by a swarm of fictitious man-eating ants. Maybe that's what scared my dad.


This post was written for the GBE2 topic: Reviews. It sort of fits. I'm not sure what They'll think about it.

Back That Truck Up!

Here come the claws. Like in a B werewolf movie, I can feel the wiry hairs sprouting on my knuckles. I have hackles and they are raised. This is not a comfortable state for me to be in. My general M.O. is to mind my own business, but sometimes I feel the need to give somebody the business.

Having just blogged about the First Amendment - using "blogged" in the loosest sense of the term, more like cutting and pasting - I will be the first to stand up and defend anyone's right to write or say or do whatever they want to. I also will defend my right to say Back. That. Truck. Up!


1st Truck that Must Back Up: Stop calling every parenting style with which you don't agree "abuse". Regrettably and horrifyingly, real abuse does exist in this world. There are families who are subjected to demeaning, hurtful, damaging, and sometimes even fatal atrocities at the hand of a parent. If that's what you're talking about, call Child Protective Services, don't blog about it. If by "abuse" you mean: setting boundaries, not setting boundaries, watching TV, watching the wrong sort of TV, eating at McDonald's, eating meat, not eating meat, going to public school, homeschooling, buying toys they like, not buying toys they like, making them do chores, not making them do chores, admitting that they get on your nerves, being stressed, disciplining, not disciplining, wearing pants, cutting their hair, or any other random thing you've taken against, cut it out. For every post that I read that some smug know-it-all rails against the "abuse" they witness other parents doing, I read five more written by honest, hardworking mothers who are doing the very best they can day after day through all sorts of circumstances and instead of going to bed at night feeling like they've accomplished something, they feel guilty. Like they don't measure up. You know why that is? Because the honest ones among us realize that sometimes we make mistakes, sometimes our human nature gets the better of us, sometimes we are not as good a parent as we'd like to be or as we know how to be. And then some jerk comes along and proclaims that yes, indeed, you are doing it all wrong and let me tell you how. Back that truck up. If you have parenting all figured out and you never get tired and you never do or say things you regret and you always make the very wisest choice in every situation in your life and your poop smells like roses, keep it to yourself and your little padded cell in Wonderland.

2nd Truck that Must Back Up:  Everyone around me must, right now, quit saying the following: Snowmageddon, Snowpocalypse, any combination of the words think and box, the phrase "everything in moderation" about anything at all, the sage wisdom "everything happens for a reason", "now more than ever", "let's roll" and probably some others but I can't think of them right now. The English language is rich and beautiful and has stolen so many words from other languages that it's now the boss of all languages. Let's air out some new phrases, shall we?

3rd Truck that Must Back Up: Stop calling everyone with whom you disagree politically a Nazi. It's rude and displays a shocking lack of historical perspective. If they are marching crowds of human beings to mass execution, then OK. If they are a feminist or a Republican or a great big blow-hard or just someone you don't like, find another word. There are concentration camp survivors still walking around and it's disrespectful to them for you to even compare your petty political complaints to such horrors.

4th Truck that Must Back Up: Stop being offended when someone offers you a kindness. I am so liberal I'm looking at Socialism in my rear view mirror, but part of my libertine ways is to treat all people equally. So if you're old or female or male or trans-gendered or a kid or whatever I will treat you with kindness. That means I will hold the door for you if you are a few feet behind me, I will offer to let you cut in line if I have a giant cart-load of groceries and two kids and you have only a few items, I will pick up something you've dropped and hand it to you, I will offer you my seat on the bus if you look tired and whatever else it may strike me to do to try to make your day a little easier. Looking startled and refusing doesn't make you liberated, it makes you rude.

5th Truck that Must Back Up: Me. I'm in a bit of a snit.

My darling readers, I started this blog as a means of expression for mostly me. I never really imagined that other people would read it, much less like it. I'd hoped, you know, or else I wouldn't have published it. But I get such positive, yummy vibes from all of you every day and now it has transformed a bit with the consciousness that others are reading. Don't take my ranting personally, please. It's just a little tantrum. It's also in response to the GBE2 prompt this week: Pet Peeves. Wow, I needed that.