May 2, 2008

• busting through

  
  busting through
  © mina kim

  the doldrums caught me unexpectedly this time.  les cafards is what the french call it.  the cockroaches.  it conjures such a different image from the english translation - the blues.  but the effects are one in all the same.  sometimes i wish i knew myself better, but even after twenty eight cycles of the same thing, i'm still surprised by me every time.  i look at my face in the mirror as if i were examining a new creature from mars.  each time i'm surprised by a habit i have long-documented, and each time i come to the conclusion that i should know myself better.  but before long,  i forget.

  that's why i write.  because i forget.  it's a little amazing and disturbing at the same time when i have a free saturday afternoon and i happen to stumble across my old journals.  they are surprisingly accessible - they occupy the top row of my bookshelf in chronological order, not too far off from the dewey decimal system.  sometimes, for the painful fun of it, i'll flip to my first journals from childhood, and sadly, but reassuringly, i'll see the same thoughts as my most recent ones.  hmm.  and yet every time i write something new, i think i'm being totally novel and original - only to find that a former me already thought of those things before.  of course, it goes with out saying that the later me has learned about garnishings and embellishments, but essentially, the message is the same.

  e told me today that i am extremely hard on myself.  i never knew this, and even though it sounded true, it was again a surprise.  extremely gracious to others, and extremely stringent with self.  i found this to be surprising and revelatory since i never hesitate to treat myself to a deliciously decadent chocolate mousse for no occasion.  i remember v telling me how simply appalling it was that only children would treat themselves to these extravagant meals just for themselves.  being an obedient middle child, he'd never allow himself the luxury.  but maybe i'm only gastronomically generous with myself.

  i want to write, and yet i'm so afraid.  i'm afraid that my words are redundant, and not new.  even though there have been so many encouragements along the way, i'm afraid to be revealed for what i really am.  in the words of holden caufield - a phony.  being a phony sucks.  at the same time, i'm waiting for that mandate - a flurry of angelic voices from above complete with a radiant beam of light, to come down from heaven and commission me to write.  but who am i kidding?  prophets come once in manatee's lifetime, if even that.

  what i realize these days is that the biggest battle i fight is with myself.  an all-knowing me still seems at odds with a more ignorant and unsure me.  one who can sing and inspire others to their veritable core, yet quakes on the inside when called to show herself.  the counseling has been amazing, and yet every time another layer is stripped away, i feel a little stunned, and i can't help but take a shred and cover my backside when i'm leaving.  isn't that counter-productive?

  ultimately, my problem is that i want to be great, but for whose eyes?  i've always been afraid of being mediocre, but again, in whose eyes?  it's as if i've fabricated this giant pair of eyes that see nothing, but consistently haunt each crevice of my life, not unlike that moth who has two large eyes painted onto its wings to scare off predators.  ever-seeing, but never-knowing.  wow, the great gatsby is all coming back.  high school english.  long live vivitsky.

  but then i think about all the great books i've ever read.  they were never explosions in the sky.  they were quiet explosions in my heart.  while the world chugged along, my heart and mind were awakened to new thoughts.  new desires.  new perspectives.  they were silent breakthroughs that lent to a new vision of sorts, and i relished them for that - quietly.  it was the strength of that secret conspiracy that only me and the author were in on.  a silent duo that sometimes grew to greater numbers as we whispered the secret code to one another.  in essence, it was a publisher's nightmare because instead of wanting to scream, "read this!" i wanted to quietly mumble, "are you in?" and move on before others caught wind.

  this desire to breakthrough.  what is it?  i keep reading the stories of greatness.  nine times out of ten, people stumble into it.  a small wave turns into a crashing tidal wave that not even the author could have foreseen...and then people catch it and ride it, and try not to let it sweep them away.  so what is this story of breakthrough then?  is it a desire to be heard above the collective din?  to be a poignant face in a sea of visages? 

  i think my crowd is much smaller.  i think it's just me.  me trying to fight me.  to break through me.  to stop me from stopping me.  my desire to breakthrough is not for an expansive greatness, but for a liberation from myself, or at least the self that seeks to thwart and destroy.  it's a celebration of the self that wishes to love, create and be free.  can't wait.

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