Verfremdungseffekt
videodrones; questions
- Joined
- Apr 23, 2009
- Messages
- 866
- MBTI Type
- INTp
- Enneagram
- 5w4
One of the things that Annie was right about, and she wasn't right about many things, is that I am not boyfriend material. I did tell her that from the start. And when we saw Jon Stewart, and the warm-up cock picked me out of the crowd, and asked if she was my girlfriend, and I didn't know how to answer -- I think that was my mistake, comforting her. Until that moment, it was so clear. I was me; she was she; we were the best of friends. The desire was there, but we were equals and ourselves. From that night on, I was a thing to her and ever so naturally she was a thing to me. Or so she would have it. To me, she was still Annie. She always would be, to the moment I gave her those final gifts and walked out her door.
Now, I don't know what she is. Some troll in the cellar. Every night when I was young, the fire house would give out an ungodly wail to signal eight o'clock. My parents called it "the Goowhacker"; if I wasn't in bed by eight, the Goowhacker would come for me -- I could hear its call, and know my time was near. I understand with my sister, my father would go down to the basement and pound on the ceiling. "Oompa-Loompa," he would chant, "doompadee-doo!" "Oh no," my mother would play along. "You must get to bed before the Oompa-Loompas get you!"
Is this normal childrearing technique, I wonder?
Either way, it seems from a young age the boogieman has been ingrained on me. "Those are the kind of windows faces look in at," Withnail says. I find it interesting that he makes the distinction. Some other day I must relate to you my history of panic attacks. Or, as Annie would call them, temper tantrums.
Now at least my boogieman has an earthly face -- though that may be little real comfort, as a specter would hardly keep me out of the Whole Foods or cause me to scrutinize from afar every woman of a certain height and build, in case I need to abruptly change my route. All a specter would give me is interesting stories to tell, perhaps in exchange for a few years of my life. For all the good those will probably do me.
But she was right. I'm no boyfriend, and I don't know that I ever can be. Right now, I'm not sure what to make of that. There are two paths to consider; let's take the less intensive, and clarify that this is not in itself a value judgment; to some extent, and I'm not sure what extent that might be, it's a question of semantics. Annie was never good with semantics, you see.
My understanding of romance, and amorous relationship, and love -- it's all of my own device. If your idea of intimacy comes from overzealous Polish aunts and Hollywood and cheap homoerotic novels, I can see how my model might seem both anarchic and boring. (That is my favorite kind of rebellion.) My idea is that people are who they are, the way you feel for a person is individual to that person, and you appreciate who you love for precisely who that person is -- strengths and weaknesses both. Each person carves out his or her own unique niche in one's life, shaped and justified by that person's merits.
I really don't see the point of playing Mad Libs, slotting people into predefined places in your life, and expecting them to fulfill a role you (or more likely someone you never met) dreamed up, years before you ever met the guy. But Annie didn't see it that way. Annie couldn't understand why it took so long for water to boil; her parents' filtered hot tap was instantaneous. Annie broke down in tears if I didn't let her choose the color of our bedsheets. Annie took it as a personal affront that I didn't understand the public transit, first time I went out alone. Annie expects a lot of things.
See, the boogieman begins to emerge. Let's change course, then. We've got our definition; I'm opposed to boyfriend-girlfriend dynamics for their impersonal nature, and the dull objectification they embody. That doesn't mean I object to intimacy, does it?
Well, there I'm not sure. In principle, no. It's fine for other people, so long as they treat each other well. Hell, let's say it's wonderful. Why not. But as for me, what do I want, what can I do, for what am I best suited? Does any of this have a place in my life? If so, what, why, and how? What place? Why does that place exist? And how does any of this work, anyway?
I like being alone. I have trouble abiding even the weakest of demands on my time; even when I'm with someone I enjoy, I can't help but wonder if there isn't something more constructive I could be doing. And I feel tired and my bucket overflows and I want to get far enough away that I can think about what's going on, and maybe start to appreciate it. I always appreciate people better from a distance.
Let's say I get over that. What would I do with a girl, that I can't do in a coffee shop? I don't know. I've been there often enough, and I still don't know. I guess there's sex, but I'm still not sure I understand the point of it. I've never wrapped my head around stamp collecting either.
Even if I figure that out, and get over my aversion to being touched, and everything is fine and dandy and justifies all that investment in Lego bricks, am I really emotionally, mentally, competent to get so entangled? And there we have the real rub. Because I don't think that I am. I don't think I'm anywhere close.
One of the first things they tell you on an airplane is to put on your own oxygen mask before going around, offering help. Sensible enough; you're no good to anyone dead or unconscious. Me, I wouldn't even clock the mask. My sense of self is hard-found and easy-lost. Add another person into the mix -- it needn't even be a person -- and she becomes my point of reference. Everything I am exists in reference to her. She becomes my reason not so much for being as for doing.
And that is not what I need. I don't need to get coiled up in someone else's hair. For that matter, I don't want someone to take my self from me. I need it. I'm still using it. Hell, I'm just now starting to figure out how it works. It's taken me a year of separation and a year of isolation to reclaim some sense of ownership over me, and I'm not about to give this up again without a fight. The boogieman has many forms; I reject them all.
On the other hand, not everyone is looking for a boyfriend.
Now, I don't know what she is. Some troll in the cellar. Every night when I was young, the fire house would give out an ungodly wail to signal eight o'clock. My parents called it "the Goowhacker"; if I wasn't in bed by eight, the Goowhacker would come for me -- I could hear its call, and know my time was near. I understand with my sister, my father would go down to the basement and pound on the ceiling. "Oompa-Loompa," he would chant, "doompadee-doo!" "Oh no," my mother would play along. "You must get to bed before the Oompa-Loompas get you!"
Is this normal childrearing technique, I wonder?
Either way, it seems from a young age the boogieman has been ingrained on me. "Those are the kind of windows faces look in at," Withnail says. I find it interesting that he makes the distinction. Some other day I must relate to you my history of panic attacks. Or, as Annie would call them, temper tantrums.
Now at least my boogieman has an earthly face -- though that may be little real comfort, as a specter would hardly keep me out of the Whole Foods or cause me to scrutinize from afar every woman of a certain height and build, in case I need to abruptly change my route. All a specter would give me is interesting stories to tell, perhaps in exchange for a few years of my life. For all the good those will probably do me.
But she was right. I'm no boyfriend, and I don't know that I ever can be. Right now, I'm not sure what to make of that. There are two paths to consider; let's take the less intensive, and clarify that this is not in itself a value judgment; to some extent, and I'm not sure what extent that might be, it's a question of semantics. Annie was never good with semantics, you see.
My understanding of romance, and amorous relationship, and love -- it's all of my own device. If your idea of intimacy comes from overzealous Polish aunts and Hollywood and cheap homoerotic novels, I can see how my model might seem both anarchic and boring. (That is my favorite kind of rebellion.) My idea is that people are who they are, the way you feel for a person is individual to that person, and you appreciate who you love for precisely who that person is -- strengths and weaknesses both. Each person carves out his or her own unique niche in one's life, shaped and justified by that person's merits.
I really don't see the point of playing Mad Libs, slotting people into predefined places in your life, and expecting them to fulfill a role you (or more likely someone you never met) dreamed up, years before you ever met the guy. But Annie didn't see it that way. Annie couldn't understand why it took so long for water to boil; her parents' filtered hot tap was instantaneous. Annie broke down in tears if I didn't let her choose the color of our bedsheets. Annie took it as a personal affront that I didn't understand the public transit, first time I went out alone. Annie expects a lot of things.
See, the boogieman begins to emerge. Let's change course, then. We've got our definition; I'm opposed to boyfriend-girlfriend dynamics for their impersonal nature, and the dull objectification they embody. That doesn't mean I object to intimacy, does it?
Well, there I'm not sure. In principle, no. It's fine for other people, so long as they treat each other well. Hell, let's say it's wonderful. Why not. But as for me, what do I want, what can I do, for what am I best suited? Does any of this have a place in my life? If so, what, why, and how? What place? Why does that place exist? And how does any of this work, anyway?
I like being alone. I have trouble abiding even the weakest of demands on my time; even when I'm with someone I enjoy, I can't help but wonder if there isn't something more constructive I could be doing. And I feel tired and my bucket overflows and I want to get far enough away that I can think about what's going on, and maybe start to appreciate it. I always appreciate people better from a distance.
Let's say I get over that. What would I do with a girl, that I can't do in a coffee shop? I don't know. I've been there often enough, and I still don't know. I guess there's sex, but I'm still not sure I understand the point of it. I've never wrapped my head around stamp collecting either.
Even if I figure that out, and get over my aversion to being touched, and everything is fine and dandy and justifies all that investment in Lego bricks, am I really emotionally, mentally, competent to get so entangled? And there we have the real rub. Because I don't think that I am. I don't think I'm anywhere close.
One of the first things they tell you on an airplane is to put on your own oxygen mask before going around, offering help. Sensible enough; you're no good to anyone dead or unconscious. Me, I wouldn't even clock the mask. My sense of self is hard-found and easy-lost. Add another person into the mix -- it needn't even be a person -- and she becomes my point of reference. Everything I am exists in reference to her. She becomes my reason not so much for being as for doing.
And that is not what I need. I don't need to get coiled up in someone else's hair. For that matter, I don't want someone to take my self from me. I need it. I'm still using it. Hell, I'm just now starting to figure out how it works. It's taken me a year of separation and a year of isolation to reclaim some sense of ownership over me, and I'm not about to give this up again without a fight. The boogieman has many forms; I reject them all.
On the other hand, not everyone is looking for a boyfriend.
