i am trying to imagine what these thoughts look like and closest i can come is to call them a blugious dark hole that shows uncanny detail when one is looking out thru the corner of one's eye but turn into a gelatinous goo when stared at. as soon as you try to pick them to pull them apart and get some understanding they turn to water, but left alone they have all the power of a dark hole seemingly keeping the universe together in an orbit or some kind of system, however difficult to predict.
i am thinking of stories we tell ourselves about ourselves.
"he is damaged goods", i said of this guy who was well qualified, good looking and well aware of both these facts, he never really had a family to call home. having been married to one of these damaged goods guys - who never had a simple trust that people from functional families have(1); and having been friends with another who couldn't trust a simple thing to stay beautiful forever - i think i knew/know what i am talking about. some people use this lack of trust to to clip their own wings, others use to it to reach amazing heights - but at the end of the day, that simple trust is a beautiful thing to have in your life.
that simple trust is, hopefully, the stories we tell ourselves - about ourselves, our past, the possibilities of the future, the world, the people we meet.
if i have hated my uncle it is because of the stories he told me about myself, it was as if he couldn't see a thing fly - "you are not really that smart, just work the system and get a compromised piece of paper, nobody is doing anything else anyway" - such a cynical and gorged out view of the world and of me. if i have loved my family it is because of the stories they have told me about myself. it is the stories they have told me about happiness and beauty - "you dont have to
be anyone to have access to happiness and beauty - they are everyone's for the asking". I didnt have to top school or top the class or be anyone other than who i was, and trying to be the best who i was - for that is a time consuming task - and that was all. it was all very simple.
these stories have a way of coming true, very often. these stories are also the way we explain facts to ourselves. it is like the horn of the rhino - made of nothing more than thin bendable hair, but we've been working on it for years.
at some level it started when my mother looked at me and thought i was full of potential and special; and my uncle* corrected her by telling her how all mothers think so. it continued when i heard stories being told about me and when in spite of me continuing to make all sorts of mistakes my father never told me to give up - or if he did I didn't hear. you fall, you get up, and life goes on.
i want to tell myself new stories, i want to look at myself with new eyes. or perhaps it is closer to truth that i want to remember the old stories, i want to look at myself and the world as i did in some vaguely remembered time or a patchwork of stories across a patchwork of time. somehow i have chipped at those old stories with the chisle of doubts while seeking smarter but shallower truths for deep comfortable homely ones.
i am now seeking to create a family i can come home to every single day. I am hoping that once i get used to the idea (again), it will be easier for me to extend that to people (2). find someone cut from the same cloth as me!(3)
This is far too much of pouring of the soul, even for me, but this is still a view from the corner of the eye (4) - these thougts can't stand a direct stare - they'll melt like ice if you try.
*in my head this is my evil uncle but could be anyone for all i know.
This is what I was thinking:
(0) What I ALSO mean by meeting a story is that I have been reading the Kingkiller Chronicles and it is the story that Kvothe is telling about himself, and that story nudges on the thoughts that I have been thinking too..
As Bast puts it to the Chronicler:
“It’s like…have you ever heard the story of Martin Maskmaker?” Chronicler shook his head and Bast gave a frustrated sigh. “How about plays? Have you seen The Ghost and the Goosegirl or The Ha’penny King?”
Chronicler frowned. “Is that the one where the king sells his crown to an orphan boy?”
Bast nodded. “And the boy becomes a better king than the original. The goose girl dresses like a countess and everyone is stunned by her grace and charm.” He hesitated, struggling to find the words he wanted. “You see, there’s a fundamental connection between seeming and being. Every Fae child knows this, but you mortals never seem to see. We understand how dangerous a mask can be. We all become what we pretend to be.”
Chronicler relaxed a bit, sensing familiar ground. “That’s basic psychology. You dress a beggar in fine clothes, people treat him like a noble, and he lives up to their expectations.”
“That’s only the smallest piece of it,” Bast said. “The truth is deeper than that. It’s…” Bast floundered for a moment. “It’s like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.”
Frowning, Chronicler opened his mouth, but Bast held up a hand to stop him. “No, listen. I’ve got it now. You meet a girl: shy, unassuming. If you tell her she’s beautiful, she’ll think you’re sweet, but she won’t believe you. She knows that beauty lies in your beholding.” Bast gave a grudging shrug. “And sometimes that’s enough.”
His eyes brightened. “But there’s a better way. You show her she is beautiful. You make mirrors of your eyes, prayers of your hands against her body. It is hard, very hard, but when she truly believes you…” Bast gestured excitedly. “Suddenly the story she tells herself in her own head changes. She transforms. She isn’t seen as beautiful. She is beautiful, seen.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Chronicler snapped. “You’re just spouting nonsense now.”
“I’m spouting too much sense for you to understand,” Bast said testily. “But you’re close enough to see my point. Think of what he said today. People saw him as a hero, and he played the part. He wore it like a mask but eventually he believed it. It became the truth. But now…” he trailed off.
“Now people see him as an innkeeper,” Chronicler said.
“No,” Bast said softly. “People saw him as an innkeeper a year ago. He took off the mask when they walked out the door. Now he sees himself as an innkeeper, and a failed innkeeper at that. You saw what he was like when Cob and the rest came in tonight. You saw that thin shadow of a man behind the bar tonight. It used to be an act….”
(1)
http://insidestory.org.au/the-remarkable-persistence-of-power-and-privilege/
(2) Elizabeth Gilbert:
I remember when I was traveling alone during the Eat Pray Love journey and I crossed this threshold where suddenly I realized, "I am going to treat myself like I am my own amazing boyfriend. I'm going to be SO GOOD to me. I'm going to take me to the most beautiful places in the world. I'm going to say the most comforting words to myself. I'm going to feed me wonderful meals, and buy me wonderful books. I'm going ask me every day, 'What do you need, dear one? What can I do for you?'" And we ended up having an amazing time together — me and me.
Such that, when I finally met the man who treated me exactly as lovingly and as tenderly as I had been treating myself, my heart recognized him and said: THIS IS GOOD. My heart said: THIS IS WHAT WE HAVE GROWN USED TO. Had I not spent that year (two years, actually) alone and practicing self-care, my heart might never have seen it, might never have noticed him, might never have learned what it means to be treated well. I might have looked him over, and gone for a very different sort of man, instead. But once you learn what is good for you, you settle for nothing less.
(3) what is romance if you don't quote Emily Bronte's Cathy:
Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.=)
(4) so why do I pour out my deep half baked convictions with anecdotal quotations from all over the place, because as EB White famously puts it
"I haven't told why I wrote the book, but I haven't told you why I sneeze, either. A book is a sneeze."
