beach towels

I'm finding more and more these busy bees and scotch-drinkers are needing to affirm themselves, seek social proofing, make sure their spaces aren't taken. Mate, just take a step back and relax, no one is going to sit on your beach towel. We (and by 'we' I mean 'I') would only sit on it if we found you of extreme inocular value, in which case, you would have not been trying or perhaps, trying too hard at all. I reccomend finding your voice again; rather, acquiring some sort of self-assurance inside that something inside - the brain, most likely. The poets and the cliché-stricken call it the heart.

But either way, here comes the topic again. If everyone I knew had the sort of red-hot confidence in their (oftentimes yet undiscovered) talents, this place would be:

a) 40% cockier
b) 10% more laid-back
c) 90% more productive

Percentages are approximates. And you know, as a good friend of mine once put it, there's nothing wrong with being a bit cocky sometimes. It keeps the unecessary shit behind the heavy silver gates. We can tell. We can all tell the unecessary mannerisms. I can tell. There's no need to find anything in anybody else, or seek someone's special pat on the back unless you feel like you need this tick of affirmation. Why would I care to be seen with the large professor? Why would it matter that my name sits alongside someone else's at a networking cable site? I thought it had always been about the 'I don't give a shit', since the birth of time.

And most importantly, why is everyone afraid to talk about this? Social politics, social analysis, the politics of relationships, image building, whatever is the planted name. Look, there's far too many people hiding in corners biting their tongues. Look, I've settled for it too; many times. All I wish for - but this is impossible in so many tangents - is that people would be in the same page as me. But it seems I'm skipping to the end of the book, and the students are still reading the Intro. (Hasn't anyone told you, that at this very day and age, reading Prefaces is a sin? Potential book murdering, even?)

But alas, alas, alas. I have a friend that hates the word 'alas'. But alas! It is what it is. Life roundabouts put you down, more and more: the more you notice them, really. All those good spirits turning bland and cold. In fact, your month-ago wish may have suddenly turned into your worst nightmare. Or rather, an anticipated occurence could have been met with strange apathy on your part. Oh, us, the kids! - (cue an unapologetic tragic face) - Eternally spoilt for choice. The grand theatres. The balls. The big ovations we expect; the culmination points, the sugar peaks of pretty much just that - icing sugar.

But your voice, your little thing: your doings, if you can find them, will leave you with some sort of satisfaction - gratifications of your own, with no need for secondary parts to please you. I'm not trying to be just like the large professor, may I point out - and by 'large professor' I don't mean God, or anything of the like. My expectations are clear: to repeat this to myself until the end of my ticking heart. Because if I do, I know I won't be sitting at home, age 35, wearing - God forbid! - a Sportscraft tracksuit, and watching cable TV with a largely complacent boy (read: husband #2) sitting next to me. (No: he will be an artist of some sort, and we will have loud arguments and scream at each other at the top of our lungs and break plates when we're angry. And we will be feverish in our love in every respect; because essentially, that is my nature.)

What I'm trying to say is - and I wish I wasn't trying to say a thing; I don't think I am, at the end of the day; but at least I've stretched out these dorment satirical muscles - what I'm trying to say is, boy oh boy, let go of other people. Do it for yourself, mate. Don't expect instant gratification, don't glorify your talents, don't sell yourself short either. Also: if there's nothing worthy to be said, it might be high time to learn how to swallow the silence. That in itself is a feat of the mind, and something I learnt with a rather young apprentice-professor. Maybe it's for our own good, anyway, that from time to time we quieten down and hatch back inside our caves. It's where we brew the most, like any good beer. It's where something kind of mysterious happens: a re-capturing of self. I think, anyway.

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