Before I begin this, I must apologize. What is to follow may seem like a passage out of Proust. But I can assure you, it is a passage out of my life.
My life has never been exciting, at least, I would never apply this word to it. No, perhaps a bit under the ordinary. Yes, this does sound about right and I would go as far as to say subnormal. I have yet to learn to drive, though I supsect my usage of the ‘yet’ implies that this exists in potentia and once the proper time arrives, it shall be actualized. Oddly enough, it has never appeared in my plans. I really have no need for it, and soon enough I shall leave my provincial life behind.
My second boyfriend, in a recent conversation called me ‘adventurous’. I had to pause and ask myself, “Are we seriously discussing the same Juan?” Yes seriously, were we? I would never think of myself as being adventurous. Sure, I travelled to Bangladesh and some, and I was not afraid when my body almost came in contact with a CNG; but is this enough to make me adventurous, my stoic reaction to death?
I am impulsive being. But my life has been sheltered for the most part; I made it so. My move to Santa Fe was not an adventure either, although I suspect packing all my belongings into two bags and heading out to a place I had neither visited in person nor in dreams, does seem a bit odd. But to quote the devil in The Brothers Karamazov: ‘Nihil est…’.
I suspect it has to do with the way I manage things; everything is shrouded by mystery, to wit: image is everything.
But as I think about these things, as I ask myself, “Who am I?” I am left wondering something else, of much more import: What is the purpose of this weblog?
Ostensibly, it’s to provide a place where I can talk about myself. Yet, it seems I have stopped myself from doing this. It’s not that my life has become stagnant (I’d have to be dead for that), it’s just that I honestly don’t know the cause of the change. There are things to discuss, yet I chose not to. Why?
I can’t justify the lack of invasion of my personal life, i.e., discussing my ‘things’ here, by the fear that my ex may read this. I have gone beyond this and also, he no longer matters. So what is it? Perhaps it’s the fear that what I write now, when I read it later, will present an altogether different me. And that is scary!
So what is going on? Apparently it’s been suggested that I move to Ireland to live with someone that’s smart and beautiful; definitely a rare combination.
And how do I respond? Not in rapturous joy as I would have expected, after all, moving to Europe is one of my dreams. So why the lack of enthusiasm? It might have to do with the fact that after the rapid movements of the last year, I am weary of moving again.
I am moving to Annapolis, but Ireland … that’s a whole different thing (and no, I am not moving to Annapolis so that I can be closer to so-and-so). Such a move would require that I abandon St. John’s (stjohnscollege.edu), again! I am not an ambitious person – so I say – so I have every door open to me. I would like to continue at the College but it’s no walk in the park, not that I enjoy doing that! I am perfectly content with sitting on my couch with my laptop on my lap while I wear a scarf. The things I desire are too abstract, too fantastic; idealism.
I could attempt to eat my cake and have it to, but that would make me a hypocrite. But honestly, is this what it amounts to? Could it simply be that I must sacrifice one thing in order to obtain another? Yes, this seems to be it. My attempts to have only what I desire have proved disastrous – I need only recall my attempts to cut my veins in the shower or my attempt to throw myself off the fith floor. No, it’s not humanly possible to have and eat our cake. It would be unrewarding if we could, I have the suspicion.
I was told that I was a stereotypical Archer, that I am always shooting arrows, without a set target. I don’t believe in astrology but I believe we are always shooting arrows. And we don’t do this because the targets exist, i.e., we shoot arrows beacuse the targets exist, we invent the targets. The targets give meaning to life. So what targets am I to choose, invent so as to guide my shooting?
Seven days remain before I return to school. I am indifferent at the moment, satisfied to rest upon my couch in jeans and an undershirt with a scarf around my neck.