A General Cry of Emptiness.
As I was telling someone, my day-to-day life has a general cry of emptiness to it.
I've become so used to this fashion of working forty hours a week, coming home to dry exhaustion and maybe a book to read, that I hardly know how to appropriately squeeze individual thoughts of my own into the overflowing mix of minutes.
Each evening, I encounter a strained conversation over the table with my Granny, the elderly but decently sane (and much beloved) owner of the home I now take up space in, all concerning other people, their own questionable routines, and the score of miserable happenings that are all tied up within those said routines.
For instance, a conversation probably carries out itself as follows:
[I walk in the door, place my things on the stairs, and look at my Granny who has immediately begun to wander whichever way she wanders, which is typically to her seat with back-supporting pillow or to the sink where some sort of duty lies.]
Me: Hey Granny. [said cautiously, never knowing her mood] How're you?
Granny: [after a considerable pause] Oh, I'm alright, I guess. [more slow, insufferable pause] How 'bout you?
Me: I'm... [searching for a reason to say anything other than what I always and am about to say] I'm--I'm okay. You heard from anyone today?
Granny: [proceeds to head into dreadfully long explanations of all she's heard, who's done what with the contents of their day (and has, obviously, been revealed to her), topped off with a reminder of many unfortunate things I've heard before--repeatedly--again and again, including her bitterness directed at different individuals for her constant attempts at bettering their lives and receiving the incorrect amount of gratitude in return for her deeds]
It's not so much that I'm unconcerned with the details of our illustrious family members--it's that we are becoming lazy social commentators during those painful half hours, consciously making ourselves into two individuals who do nothing but discuss the matters of others in order to overshadow and make our own lives stale and forgotten. At least, this is how I see it. More often that not, she probably doesn't lend much time doting on the "why" or "how" of the matter.
One could hardly tell if she enjoys it, you know, recounting all the cycling horrors of the recent past: my masochistic mother's hideous relationship with a pre-step-father figure who does little but order her around during their daily construction work routine, avidly avoiding responsibility as well as the constant calls from the credit card companies who are frantically wondering where it is the money they were promised has gone to; my sister's recently formed relationship with a Native American gothic Wiccan child who has little to him that should be offensive at all but to an elderly Christian stuck firm in her ways such as my grandmother herself; and, of course, my Granny's failing health, though only hinted at when I ask the daily question of how she slept. The latter is often the reason to keep an extra eye in her direction, though she would rarely disclose information unless asked, and therefore expects the world to mourn at her feet. Of course, when she finds that the majority of those close to her are incapable of mind-reading, she tends to cook up a monsterously large amount of bitterness for us all, thinking us--oh, what's the word--selfish.
Naturally, I am to assume that my own behavior must be discussed in conferences very similar to those I hold with her, save for the fact that it is my sister engaging in the discussion and not myself. For, of course, a woman nearing twenty is thought whorish and ungrateful for staying overnight at a boyfriend's house. Information regarding this is typically chopped into delicious little safe lies, such as the part about me sleeping not in my boyfriend's bed but safely and chastely upon his couch. Such white fibs don't stop my mother's constant accusations of sexual intercourse, though, which, even if true, should not break me down into the irreputable little wretch that she so viciously and eagerly paints me as.
Sorry, mother, but you slept with the Married Man in the Married Bed, and that goes above all hypocrisy for me.
But back to the Granny Talks.
Talking with her after a decent day is naturally less irritating, but even so I find that it still leaves me with a very crisp reminder of that emptiness I began with at the beginning of this entry. I think that Granny has become intuitive enough to realize that I function in such a way to steer all conversations away from myself. Or, at least, she may recognize that I don't reveal too much regarding myself unless constantly prodded. With all this said, it may enhance the allure of a conversation that's got absolutely zero to do with me or her and most everything to do with any other individual connected by blood or interest. I'll give her a tidbit about my distancing best friend; she'll nod or express the correct emotion. She'll tell me the fine details of a conversation with her brother; I'll voice the fitting noises of acknowledgment.
When she begins repeating herself and I softly remind her that I've heard most of it before, I begin to wonder if she's actually struggling for topics to cover or if, truly, this is all there happens to be. Either way, it's basically sad, and once I'm full enough of others' miseries, I trudge my way upstairs with heavy limbs. From there, I look around at the room I share with my sister (she being at the boyfriend's abode, leaving me alone until 10:30ish at night). I share the room with her now, but I had once lived in it alone during my sophomore year of high school. This was during the height of the divorce, when mother up and left me to Granny's command and a dependency on her pocketbook, and it is remembered as a disasterous time.
The room looks different now. When I inhabited it solely, it was still in its antique nature, untouched by the identity of a very perplexed teenage girl. Now it's covered over by magazine clippings selected for their humor, attractive men, or basic connection to my sister's interests. Now it looks lived-in. We share a large waterbed located in the middle of this room, and we've both folded our down comforters over sleeping bag style, most likely to avoid any unwanted rolling-over encounters in the midst of dreams.
Strangely, that's not as large an invasion of privacy as I thought it'd be.
I have nights where I'd prefer to be alone, but it's easy to deal with when you're exhausted and have nothing to look forward to but punching your alarm clock at 6:07AM.
The strangling lack of privacy is my inability to write. I don't know where to place the blame, really. I hold the blame in my hands, search 'round, but I honestly see no space where it'd slide in snugly. Perhaps it came with the realization that I should no longer pursue creative writing as a major. Perhaps it came when I fancied the idea (and gave into it) that I use writing as a necessary emotional outlet and could never see myself being forced to create.
As someone told me, I have a need to create and justify beauty. So whatever field such an ideal covers, I need to hurry up and immerse my direction in.
I feel like so little takes the life out of me. And when I talk to my Granny, I think I leave the table with a chill, knowing I'm facing so much independence and am doing it poorly. However, I also leave with resolution, and that resolution is to never grow up, having cultivated a self, with need to discuss the trivial instead of the beautiful.
I've become so used to this fashion of working forty hours a week, coming home to dry exhaustion and maybe a book to read, that I hardly know how to appropriately squeeze individual thoughts of my own into the overflowing mix of minutes.
Each evening, I encounter a strained conversation over the table with my Granny, the elderly but decently sane (and much beloved) owner of the home I now take up space in, all concerning other people, their own questionable routines, and the score of miserable happenings that are all tied up within those said routines.
For instance, a conversation probably carries out itself as follows:
[I walk in the door, place my things on the stairs, and look at my Granny who has immediately begun to wander whichever way she wanders, which is typically to her seat with back-supporting pillow or to the sink where some sort of duty lies.]
Me: Hey Granny. [said cautiously, never knowing her mood] How're you?
Granny: [after a considerable pause] Oh, I'm alright, I guess. [more slow, insufferable pause] How 'bout you?
Me: I'm... [searching for a reason to say anything other than what I always and am about to say] I'm--I'm okay. You heard from anyone today?
Granny: [proceeds to head into dreadfully long explanations of all she's heard, who's done what with the contents of their day (and has, obviously, been revealed to her), topped off with a reminder of many unfortunate things I've heard before--repeatedly--again and again, including her bitterness directed at different individuals for her constant attempts at bettering their lives and receiving the incorrect amount of gratitude in return for her deeds]
It's not so much that I'm unconcerned with the details of our illustrious family members--it's that we are becoming lazy social commentators during those painful half hours, consciously making ourselves into two individuals who do nothing but discuss the matters of others in order to overshadow and make our own lives stale and forgotten. At least, this is how I see it. More often that not, she probably doesn't lend much time doting on the "why" or "how" of the matter.
One could hardly tell if she enjoys it, you know, recounting all the cycling horrors of the recent past: my masochistic mother's hideous relationship with a pre-step-father figure who does little but order her around during their daily construction work routine, avidly avoiding responsibility as well as the constant calls from the credit card companies who are frantically wondering where it is the money they were promised has gone to; my sister's recently formed relationship with a Native American gothic Wiccan child who has little to him that should be offensive at all but to an elderly Christian stuck firm in her ways such as my grandmother herself; and, of course, my Granny's failing health, though only hinted at when I ask the daily question of how she slept. The latter is often the reason to keep an extra eye in her direction, though she would rarely disclose information unless asked, and therefore expects the world to mourn at her feet. Of course, when she finds that the majority of those close to her are incapable of mind-reading, she tends to cook up a monsterously large amount of bitterness for us all, thinking us--oh, what's the word--selfish.
Naturally, I am to assume that my own behavior must be discussed in conferences very similar to those I hold with her, save for the fact that it is my sister engaging in the discussion and not myself. For, of course, a woman nearing twenty is thought whorish and ungrateful for staying overnight at a boyfriend's house. Information regarding this is typically chopped into delicious little safe lies, such as the part about me sleeping not in my boyfriend's bed but safely and chastely upon his couch. Such white fibs don't stop my mother's constant accusations of sexual intercourse, though, which, even if true, should not break me down into the irreputable little wretch that she so viciously and eagerly paints me as.
Sorry, mother, but you slept with the Married Man in the Married Bed, and that goes above all hypocrisy for me.
But back to the Granny Talks.
Talking with her after a decent day is naturally less irritating, but even so I find that it still leaves me with a very crisp reminder of that emptiness I began with at the beginning of this entry. I think that Granny has become intuitive enough to realize that I function in such a way to steer all conversations away from myself. Or, at least, she may recognize that I don't reveal too much regarding myself unless constantly prodded. With all this said, it may enhance the allure of a conversation that's got absolutely zero to do with me or her and most everything to do with any other individual connected by blood or interest. I'll give her a tidbit about my distancing best friend; she'll nod or express the correct emotion. She'll tell me the fine details of a conversation with her brother; I'll voice the fitting noises of acknowledgment.
When she begins repeating herself and I softly remind her that I've heard most of it before, I begin to wonder if she's actually struggling for topics to cover or if, truly, this is all there happens to be. Either way, it's basically sad, and once I'm full enough of others' miseries, I trudge my way upstairs with heavy limbs. From there, I look around at the room I share with my sister (she being at the boyfriend's abode, leaving me alone until 10:30ish at night). I share the room with her now, but I had once lived in it alone during my sophomore year of high school. This was during the height of the divorce, when mother up and left me to Granny's command and a dependency on her pocketbook, and it is remembered as a disasterous time.
The room looks different now. When I inhabited it solely, it was still in its antique nature, untouched by the identity of a very perplexed teenage girl. Now it's covered over by magazine clippings selected for their humor, attractive men, or basic connection to my sister's interests. Now it looks lived-in. We share a large waterbed located in the middle of this room, and we've both folded our down comforters over sleeping bag style, most likely to avoid any unwanted rolling-over encounters in the midst of dreams.
Strangely, that's not as large an invasion of privacy as I thought it'd be.
I have nights where I'd prefer to be alone, but it's easy to deal with when you're exhausted and have nothing to look forward to but punching your alarm clock at 6:07AM.
The strangling lack of privacy is my inability to write. I don't know where to place the blame, really. I hold the blame in my hands, search 'round, but I honestly see no space where it'd slide in snugly. Perhaps it came with the realization that I should no longer pursue creative writing as a major. Perhaps it came when I fancied the idea (and gave into it) that I use writing as a necessary emotional outlet and could never see myself being forced to create.
As someone told me, I have a need to create and justify beauty. So whatever field such an ideal covers, I need to hurry up and immerse my direction in.
I feel like so little takes the life out of me. And when I talk to my Granny, I think I leave the table with a chill, knowing I'm facing so much independence and am doing it poorly. However, I also leave with resolution, and that resolution is to never grow up, having cultivated a self, with need to discuss the trivial instead of the beautiful.