You and Me--I've missed you

When it comes to formal writing, "you" and "me" are often marked as the untouchables of the English language, right alongside "alot" and "dude." They have become the lepers of polite society, words that, in suggesting a direct and intimate connection with both the audience and the writer herself, endanger the tone of objectivity and professionalism academics and other smart people seek. People reading research papers or critical analysis want to be offered a view from the outside in, not a direct glimpse into the writer's heart. Or their own.

Of course, I'm not saying that third person and professionalism do not have their place. Limiting the use of words that speak of a more personal narrative certainly makes it more difficult for biased misconceptions to surface and distort critical analysis. Detachment, to a certain extent, is essential in academic work.

But how I've missed being able to poke the reader in the eye with a rousing "you," or sprinkling in a dash of personality with a handy first person pronoun! One of the reasons blogs are often much more entertaining to read is because they unabashedly flaunt their subjective and even biased content. These posts address their audiences with the familiarity of a particularly outspoken and slightly eccentric neighbor, and seem to hold nothing back. "There is nothing quite as degrading as trying to have a serious argument when you're half drunk and dressed up like a giant pumpkin of the tooth fairy" (Hyperbole and a Half) or "Yes, I packed wipes. I'M A MOTHER" (Dooce) are statements that, in their hilarious candour, click immediately with their reader's own thoughts and experiences. They are calls, reminders to examine the humanness of the words that surround them, and to seek some sort of connection. They say "yeah you, I'm talking to you" or "have you ever come across the same thing I have?" Where "one" is reserved, ever-courteous, and often hypothetical, "you" and "me" are rude, invasive, and unapologetic.

In reclaiming these two words, it feels as though I am somehow reclaiming my audience, and myself. No longer do I have to disguise the fact that I am reaching out to an audience (whether they are listening or not), or that my opinions and my interpretations are my own.

Oh you and me, how I've missed you.

Wondering

I have heard and read countless accounts of people receiving guidance from God. Some have heard His voice, some have met angels, other have experienced visions--all have, in one way or another, felt a direct connection with Him. Whenever I come across one of these stories, a pinprick of envy always lurks behind my awe. Why don't you ever do that for me, God? Why can't I hear your voice, or feel such a tangible connection? If You could do that for me, maybe I wouldn't have to make all these mistakes, take all these detours.

But perhaps God is still strengthening my faith. If He appeared each day to those of little faith, trailing clouds of glory, if He answered every call for a vision or miracle, concrete evidence of His existence, we would never truly come to trust in Him. We would still cling to the physical, to the shallow limits of the tangible and physical. "Yeah, yeah, God, you want me to do this? Could you wiggle your pinky for me? Once for yes, two for no. Or, better yet, bring Shrek 4 back into theaters so I can watch it. Then I'll believe you." How can a relationship shackled by human limitation ever be as profound as one built on a trust that cannot be felt or seen, a faith that extends beyond “what eyes can see”? Maybe I have focused so singlemindedly on uncovering my own vision, on seeking an audible voice, a tour guide, that I have forgotten to listen.

Submerged by loish

Editing--wonder what that's like

Editing is one stage of writing I have never been able to make it to. Perhaps it is because editing is against my nature. Go back and look over everything again when finishing it the first time almost killed you? I distinctly remember my sixth grade teacher once saying, "Don't be afraid to revise. Don't fall so deeply in love with every sentence you write that you can't bring yourself to change it." But what's wrong with getting it right the first time? Is perfection such a crime?

Of course I don't presume to believe that my writing is anywhere near perfect. Or that every single sentence I write is a masterpiece. But after I finish a paper or a story, it is as though my mind settles into an irreversible complacency and refuses to reopen the case. Even if this sentence rambles on for one third of the page. Or if this paragraph contains more color adjectives than the back of a Crayola box. My mind always manages to whip up an excuse that sounds so persuasive, so reasonable to someone whose laziness prevents her from throwing used tissues away until the Mount Everest of processed paper pulp emerges. "No, no, no, that sentence needs to run twenty lines because it is the part where Bob's reasons for stealing the shopping cart from a nearby grocery store finally come to the surface" or "Of course there are fifty two color adjectives in there! How else would you capture the essence of a unicorn?"

Or perhaps I have managed to combine the processes of writing and editing into one agonizing, blood-sucking procedure that leaves the writer incapacitated for weeks afterwards. Does that explain why it takes me fifteen minutes to write a single sentence?

The brilliance of kids

It makes you wonder what you would be capable of now if you had only held onto that childlike mind for a little longer....what did you get rid of it so quickly for?

Some days are for people watching

While there are many things wrong with this house--the screen door leading to the patio often swings open of its own accord (especially on typhoon days), the bars in front of the study room window are not unlike those found in jail cells, and the kitchen is so narrow there is barely enough space for groceries, much less for any brandishing of pots and pans--there is one thing that may make up for everything else. Along one side of our living room runs a wall-length window complete with sliding glass frames and cream-colored curtains, a window that overlooks the sunbleached roofs and rice fields behind our apartment. On days that are too hot or too perfect to be spent doing anything else, it's nice to lounge on the couch and watch old ladies in wide-brimmed straw hats, laying out radishes to dry, or people puttering down the winding road in motorcycles that could probably be outstripped by those snails lay salmon pink eggs in the fields.

Do I feel guilty, sitting in an air-conditioned room sipping guava juice (or whatever my mom happens to make that morning), looking down on these people going about their daily business and being productive in the sweltering air of Taiwan? Somewhat. But there is something so soothing about peeking into someone else's life, about being able to observe another individual going about their daily business as though you cannot be touched by such things such as time, survival, or heat. To be able to look on as others carry on the business of living, to leave your own private struggles behind and become, if only for a moment, an observer, above such trivial concerns, unmoved by such petty patterns. Even if it is all only pretend.

I wonder if someone else spends their times gazing on my life. Looking on as I agonize over last minute papers and emails I have put off for too long, watching as I talk to my rabbit or leave my nail clippings on the coffee table when I think no one is there to see, observing my clueless attempts to start a blog or to find some definite direction in life. I wonder what this person would be thinking as they watched my days unfold like some low-budget soap opera. Would they wonder, "What was she thinking when she decided to eat that sandwich that had been sitting in refrigerator for a week?" Would they sigh with exasperation, or smile their knowing smiles? Or would they simply switch to another channel, to another more eventful, more stimulating story?

I often don't notice the unremarkable, even repetitive quality of my life unless it is in retrospect. I am (all too easily, according to my mom), satisfied with the ordinary, everyday flow of things. If we had carrot-flavored oatmeal for breakfast every morning, I would probably come to like it, and maybe even eventually relish in the repetition of a daily ritual. I actually don't mind wearing a uniform, or the fact that my world essentially consists of a single street. It rarely occurs to me to be discontent or to reach further. My Biology teacher once wrote in my yearbook that he "hoped to see me on the cover of Time magazine someday," but I probably won't ever appear on the cover of any publication unless it is for something mind-numbingly mundane. Like for brushing my tongue consistently each night before I go to bed. Is it because I'm lazy? Because I lack initiative? Because I fear change, and so cling to the familiar instead? Because I'm too narrow-minded, and can't possibly conceive of doing things any other way? I get the feeling that I will never head a large corporation, become a "pearl of price," or win a Nobel Prize.

I don't know if this attitude is a sort of graceful acceptance or self-defeating resignation. After all, aren't people supposed to reach for the impossible (and then wince in pained surprise when they fall on their behinds)? But, then again, I have my own small triumphs to celebrate. Another favorable rating on Teen Ink, another completed blog post. And most of the time, this is enough.

Where to start

I'm afraid I may be losing my voice. Or forgetting what it sounds like. I don't know if it's the symptoms of a early midlife crisis, a side effect of finishing my first year of college and finding that I am no pearl among peas, or just another notch in a long string of insecurities that I have about myself. Maybe I'm just remembering wrong. But I don't remember always being this unsure of myself when it came to writing. Have I always hesitated for ten or fifteen minutes between words? Have I always been this easily distracted? Have my ideas always run dry three or four sentences into the first paragraph?

Writers are supposed to get better as they go, not more fearful and uncertain of themselves. And so I have started this blog in the hopes of somehow recovering a sense of confidence in my ability to express myself, and to somehow cultivate the ideas that mushroom ever so ephemerally in my head. Maybe this type of confessional writing, free from the restrictions and pressures of a paper that has been left too late, is just the thing I need.

The problem is, although I've spent the past several days clicking through endless blogs and reading about everything from African ingenuity to The Perfect Grandson, I can't seem to grasp what a blog is supposed to look, sound, or feel like. In my rovings across the internet, I have encountered voices and textures of all sorts. And perhaps in trying to condense into a sentence or two what a blog is "supposed" to be, I am missing the point. All too easily, I have once again fallen into the trap of marking out my boundaries before I've even begun. While Wordsworth claims that "nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room," maybe the "weight of too much liberty" will be good for me. Maybe this time the way to go is to simply to sit back and write, and see where the tide will take me.

(picture above title taken from http://loish.deviantart.com/gallery/#/doalbf)