Sunday, January 21, 2007

REALLY fucking preachy blog.

Ok, here is my serious (only somewhat self-effacing) pontification for the month:

I think we all spend our lives trying to align our insides with our outsides; to make sure that the freckly curvy thing in the mirror matches up with our freckly, curvy soul. In the past, I've felt so incredibly disconnected from my own visage. I remember looking in my mother's bathroom mirror and thinking "jesus, that's me?" The truth is, sometimes I wake up feeling like Aretha Franklin, and other days I feel like Woody Allen. Then other days, I feel like their monstrous spawn (Star Jones-Reynolds?). But lately, I've found solace in the acceptance of my fluctuating self-image and person. I am a little speck of ali mercury, bouncing around the anal thermometer we call life.

I'm being pretty vague here, but I think I finally realized that everyone's confused as well as confusing. And I'm not alone in this constant question of my identity and how I choose to present (slash conceal) it. Maybe I'm becoming less of an egomaniac or at least slightly less self-conscious. Or more self-conscious, who the fuck knows.

So my piece at Arthouse includes a book about a traveling phantom trenchcoat. The Trenchcoat has no head and because of that the reader can't pinpoint race, gender, or class. I say class, because trench coats are worn both in high fashion and by flashers. And I'm summarizing because I really liked that I could fuck with a character's identity enough to make it less visible. That would be nice in real life. Not being able to discern so much at first glance. A Tabula Rasa. Yes please, that's what I want to see and what I want to be seen. A blank slate. A headless, nameless person judged by something other than breast size, skin tone and footwear.

This post was prompted by thinking about a former student of mine who is actually attempting to figure himself out. I think it's great for a number of reasons but one of them is that complacency of self often makes it hard and scary to really investigate who we are. So many people live in some foreign body because it's too fucking difficult to actually do some serious psychological sleuthing.

Ok, my high priestess collar is strangling me now. Let's just say that self-hatred sucks and everybody should give their inner Aretha a big, sloppy kiss (or at least a brief acknowledgment).

3 comments:

Z said...

Freckles are tiny pieces of Chocolate strapped with nickel plated good times. Did you hear about Porus Walker? Walker Texs?

Ali Fitzgerald said...

Yes'm. I love me some Porous Walker. But what does that have to do with Walker, Texas Ranger?
Interesting Chuck Norris facts:
"Chuck Norris does not have a chin underneath his beard, he has another fist."
"Chuck Norris does not shower. He rides a Grizzly Bear through a car wash."
"Chuck Norris does not write books, the words assemble themselves out of fear."

jasper said...

It's funny I keep finding my self into the crevices of this blog. Still not sure what to make of it but its getting even more amusing in a good way of course.