The tension between expectations and reality are the rough ripping seam of all structures. Even the self is pulled by the threads, by our experiences in childhood. I remember in graduate school when I blurted out something I did not know about myself. “I need to be creative in order to justify my existence.”
Wow. It was like hearing some Oracle speaking through my head or a rock or a potato sitting in a basket on the counter.
Knowing from an early age that I could be killed by my supposed “protectors” honed my ability to read the room. Am I performing in a way that is valued and accepted? My emotional X-ray vision made it clear what was being demanded. The reason that I did not dissolve in good girl blandness, into a beige tapioca pudding of tasteless blandness was because I had the “rebel girl” nature as my backbone.
I can and could see what you wish I would be. I can and could understand that eating the wafer of your cult of middle class innocuousness which would dissolve upon on tongue might be my best protection. And recently as I read my newest blog to a circle of writers who told me, “You are not very nice.” I accepted the reaction.
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And why we are entrained to mumble sweetly into the latte´ without questioning It is because we are afraid that secretly we harbour an anger that is destructive and unbridled. The role models of ferocity and passionate truth telling stir our hearts.
I know who you want me to be. But I know my voice when it speaks true. I am here to grab the wire and connect to something risky and intense. What I am here to create is myself.