Optical Illusion

So I really should be writing my one-act play at the moment, but I suppose that any sort of inspiration will come to me in time. Hopefully. I had to write this because my life is feeling rather optical-illusion-y at the moment. So let me begin.

We are all characterized by the things we say and do on the outside. A hairstyle, a body type, a gesture, a greeting, a conversation. Now some might say that what we say directly correlates with how we are on the inside, but I beg to differ. Much of what I say has nothing to do with what I'm feeling on the inside. My mouth is definitely the filter between my thoughts and vocalized speech. When I'm writing, the thoughts simply explode from my fingertips. Anyway, it is necessity that we characterize people by their outside actions and make-up, because obviously we do not know what is inside and have no way of getting to know one another unless we characterize in this way. Now the question is, do we ever get to know the "inside" of a person? Can we every break that boundary of physical body and actually connect with the mind and soul of another? The answer is no. Yeah, right, Ashley the eternal optimist here, saying that it is impossible to get to know another's true inside self. But I've just come to the realization that we are all sort of optical illusions, that people perceive us in one way that probably differs greatly from reality (our self-reality). Let me explain.

Let us say that I have just met a guy. He casually introduces himself, I introduce myself. From his looks and his forward attitude, he seems very confident and charming. He asks for my number. Now-- what is his motivation? Do I really know? No, of course I don't. I simply know that an attractive guy asked for my number, so I give it to him. What is my motivation? He doesn't know either. Perhaps he's fallen in love, and I am just giving him my number because he looks nice (that would suck). Perhaps he's dating another girl and I look like the type to play the game. Perhaps he's simply interested in getting to know me. No matter what we're thinking, this exchange is going to amount to something and both of us will have preconceived notions of what it will amount to, and this shapes the relationship regardless of what we are thinking on the inside. And then a series of events unfold that make or break the relationship <-- Don't even get me started on the "relationship game". That is for another blog post :) But regardless of how close I get to this guy, I will never know his motivations, I will never know what he's thinking or feeling on the inside; I can only characterize him based on what he says or does to me.

Let's just say that I have known these people for my entire life. Just recently I've learned things that days ago I would have laughed off and said were untrue. However, what I've learned is true beyond a shadow of a doubt, and now I'm left to pick up the pieces of a shattered optical illusion. I've caught a glimpse of the objective reality and now I'm sitting here confused staring at a life that I thought was true with people I thought I knew very well. Did I really know these people? Yes and no. I know a conglomeration of events and words and actions that have taken place over the years; I know the emotions and memories of these people. But I do not know these people on the inside.

And that is what is so hard for me. To think that we spend our lives communicating, but that this communication is all just a facade in front of the real thing. I could spend my life lying and nobody would be the wiser. I could spend my life telling the truth and nobody would know the difference.

It's interesting. As you can probably tell I don't like petty relationships. All that, "hey what's up?" "how are you?" "good" stuff that goes on every day. Once I talk to a person, it's hit or miss. If I like you I love you, and if I don't like you then I'm not going to pursue anything. Problem is, not a lot of people feel this way, so I'm typically left reeling after throwing myself into the hesitant arms of another.

Fear Itself

Typically, I like to think deep. No, I don't sit around all day and ponder the philosophical meaning of life or spend my spare time (yeah, like I have a lot of that :D) staring into space considering that all-encompassing "why?" I don't do this at all, but I do like to think about things, especially when I'm walking. It was weird to have been walking with a guy who seems to be just as in touch with his feelings as I am. I was actually kind of shocked into silence (at least brain silence). He asked me "what do you fear most" and at the time I said "dolls" simply because that is the most irrational of my fears and something that was occupying my mind at the time since we had previously talked about ghosts and I was thinking about dolls being possessed and coming to life. No, it wasn't deep or thought-provoking or even close to philosophical. And then the jaw-dropping moment. The one thing men never want to admit. He told me that he was afraid of falling in love. Just like that, so naturally and simply. To add to this, he went on to tell me why he was afraid, and it was a fantastic conversation.
What? Men actually talk about this stuff? Don't get me wrong, I'm not stereotyping, but honestly I've never met a man so unabashed about what he fears most. I liked being surprised, though :)

So, it got me to thinking, what am I really afraid of? Sure, dolls. But there's more to it than that. So here's a list.
1. I'm afraid that I will not live up to my own standards. I was in the Challenge Class for gifted students in elementary school, I breezed through middle school (academically...socially is another story), I was in the top 25 of my graduating class, became a National Merit Scholar and a Herbert presidential scholar, and I continue to excel. I'm not bragging; in truth, this scares me. I know I'm intelligent, I know that I have some weird thirst for knowledge (and I don't mean getting an A in class) that others don't have, I know that I want to make a huge difference, somewhere. I just don't want to be a middle school English teacher who's bored with her job and dreams of being a writer. I don't want to be a counselor who listens to other's problems every day and forgets to take care of herself. I don't want to be stuck somewhere, with a clear set of boundaries and no room to expand. I want to travel, I want to be open-minded, I want to continue to learn, I want to be impactful, I want to do a lot of things :) I'm afraid that these grand schemes may come crashing down in the future, and I will be left broken.
2. Speaking of broken, I suppose that I am also afraid of falling in love, or not falling in love, or both. I jokingly told somebody that I would be the one who ends up as a hermit writer living in a cabin in the woods somewhere far away from civilization. And the scary part is, I think I would be all right with that for a few years. But I want to find the right person. I know it will come in time, and that I'll know when I do in time. But what if I don't? Like my friend said, he can't find the right one because they all "break his heart". Well, I'd rather have my heart broken knowing that someday I'll find a person who makes me truly truly happy. And it's not like I spend my time trying to find that perfect man, honestly I don't even really think about it, but after that conversation I have really been wondering. Hmmm...
3. I am truly afraid of the way that our technology is headed. Don't get me wrong, I love love love technology. But really, there's a point where we have gone too far. No longer is communication the personal, warm generation of feelings that it once was. And yes, I know, you are thinking "what a hypocrite, she's blogging about how communication sucks and she posted it on Facebook". If you're not thinking that, you should be :) Impersonal communication (okay, not entirely impersonal, but much less personal than in the past) is vital nowadays, and I'd much rather have my voice heard than not. Also, most of you who are reading this are likely good friends who care. And I would be ecstatic to have a conversation about all of this in person. You'd have to deal with my inability to express myself very well in words, though :) Back to the point...I am afraid of our progress in technology. But there's nothing I can do about it, and life has this funny way of circling in such a way that is so remarkable. In the future, humans will be back to square one. No technology. No computer. Just them and the earth. Or us and the earth, depending on how soon Father Time and Mother Nature want to restart. Heck, it could be 2012.


Ahhh. I'm glad that I was able to get that out. It was weird to listen to this guy who was so obviously more in touch with his feelings. When I saw weird I mean that it was a good weird...and I really hope that I am able to talk more with this excessively interesting person :D
I don't think I could be a hermit. Even if it sounds kind of appealing. I like people toooo much!

So those are my thoughts for the day.
I'd actually really like to hear some fears that you have, and you can email me or talk with me or get in contact with me and we can talk :)

Fiction

I realized, after a half dozen desperate short story beginnings, that I would enjoy writing novels. I can't seem to characterize the way that I want to in just seven pages. I like creating :) Anywho, here is the beginning of a short story meant to focus on setting. It is one exercise that we began in class and had to finish at home. Don't know where I'm going to go with it...but I'll let the characters take me where they will! :)


Being Thrown In

The basement where the concerts are held is dark save the dusty red stage lighting that illuminates several mohawks, a drum set, and an electric guitar. The air is musty and damp with heat, and perspiring bodies wipe sweat onto their black loose t-shirts and plaid pants. Legs and arms flail and collide in the mosh pit, while a few muffled grunts and whelps of pain indicate a bruise or a black eye or a nosebleed or a twisted joint. Hardly-worn fruity perfume mixes with hair gel and humidity. Piercings gleam in the darkness while biting, wailing chords screech and cut through bodies packed like ants on a dropped breadcrumb. The music doesn’t matter, as its pulsating beat is simply a rhythm, a backdrop for the buildup of an orchestra of anger that has surfaced in the pit. Everywhere is black—hair and torn-down streamers and flimsy old chairs and clothes and eyeliner. In the corner, though, a girl with a yellow shirt stands alone gazing at the mosh pit with a mixture of fright and yearning.

Kira stands as far away from the pit as she can get. She doesn’t want to be here (maybe), and she straightens her long, flowered skirt as the drum solo ricochets off the walls and threatens a minor earthquake. It’s dark enough that no one will see her if she edges out of the room. Ryker and Alex are in the mosh, anyway, and they will probably be nursing bloody noses before they realize she’s gone. Problem is, she has no way to get home since she’s seventeen and let her permit expire; that means she has to wait another six months before driving on her own even becomes a possibility.

Kira abandons her corner and sidesteps until she reaches two decrepit door handles twisted and stuck at awkward angles. She pushes slightly and a crack of light appears, like Heaven (or the light at the end of the tunnel, she thinks, since I’m not religious). Footsteps clink on the tiled floor and Kira walks quickly but with composure (in case somebody sees her) into the nearest room, which happens to be a custodial closet. She closes the door behind her and turns on a small overhead light. She forgot this was once a school building, called Washington High or something generic like that. Kira slumps on an overturned bucket and tenderly touches her head because the drumbeats are still ear-splitting.

Why did she even come here? To prove something? Ryker is the kind of guy who has to initiate his female interests, and since he frequents the Underground basement music scene, this is where “initiation” takes place. If a girl joins the mosh pit, she is deemed worthy of his love. And he’s just so cute that it was hard not to agree to come, despite the fact that Kira is terrified of dark places and loud music and big groups and especially physical contact. He told her he’d take care of her, but once the music started and he saw that she wasn’t going anywhere near the pit he kind of left her alone. Alex, Ryker’s best friend, didn’t seem to approve of Kira anyway once he saw that she wasn’t wearing a scrap of black. She doesn’t like black. Why is she attracted to the brooding punk-rockers who seem to think that black is sacred and should make up at least one-fourth of every outfit? Oh yeah, Ryker is a brooding punk-rocker, and he’s attractive. She wanted to join him in the mosh pit, she really did, but to go in may have had severe physical consequences.

Sitting in the custodial closet is strangely comforting. Apart from the smell of several unknown cleaning solutions, it is actually pleasant. Kira stands up from her overturned bucket throne and opens the door a crack. The music has dulled dramatically in the few minutes since she’s been out here, and Kira wonders if perhaps the concert is over. The hallway is still empty, so unless a mass exodus has occurred and she didn’t hear the trampling of heels and platforms and boots past her refuge, Kira doubts anybody has left the building yet. She might be able to make it back to her original position in the corner with Ryker being none the wiser. She might even be able to say that she stood on the fringe of the mosh pit for a few minutes and he might take her in his arms and profess his certainty that he knows she is the one, she made it, she passed the test, she is worthy of his pouting, full lips and those teeth that flash like cameras. Her heels clink once again across the tiled floor as she prepares to return to the blackness of the Underground, to Ryker, and to (hopefully) an impassioned love confession.
TO BE CONTINUED………