Decorating the bars

Fragment #18

Every time I write, I feel myself sliding into the cage of paradoxes. Escaping the confines of the mind only to imprison the moment in typeface. Doing it publicly feels like decorating the bars.

Seeking external release is a natural response. I do not want thoughts to ferment for so long they turn poisonous and eat me alive, yet I treat them as they are - intellectual debris. An occasional passerby may gather them up and burn for warmth while others barely notice; their heads down busy building their own castles.

Grandiosity means to consistently have larger fantasies than a real life experience can support. These either cause running around trying to keep up with the relentless demands or feeling depressed because the desires are so unachievable that it seems useless to do anything at all.

“We do not know where death awaits us; so let us wait for it everywhere. To practice death is to practice freedom. A man who has learned how to die has unlearned how to be a slave.” - Essays of Montaigne

My ego loves to act a fool for its reflection, so I strive to notice the lengths it will go for attention and what it will do to avoid acknowledging itself. How grand do you want to be?

There is countless things I don’t know, but to write anything publicly means I naturally position myself above a reader. Ego spots itself and smiles: “damn gurl, you look clever today, go on, publish it!” It’s so easy to become entranced with the fruit and ignore the seed.

I believe in some twisted way we have all swallowed some Kool aid; believing that any minor event in our lives is a book in the making. Go on, publish it. Find your voice. Write the book. You are brilliant. Tell your story. In my opinion, most writers are middling in quality. They cobble together scenes with a few dramatic details but they are not saying anything beyond the pale. I’m not an author because I don’t want to be. Should I, it would take years of practice and learning and hard graft to be of any substance. It’s terribly easy to be sidetracked by the sparkles and elevate myself beyond a point of competence. In doing so, I’d be shelving what actually lights me up from the inside. I adore reading and can write sentences and love asking the challenging questions to get to the heart of a matter. That’s as good as my literary prowess gets.

Some people though, have real stories worth telling.

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Everything written above was drafted about two weeks ago and left to marinate. The title, coincidentally, is the original and I’m not about to argue with a little divine intervention. Emmett introduced himself on to one of my essays. Now, when people drop their essays in my essays the first thought is “look at this presumptuous dick” and out of principle, I usually don’t read them. I must have been feeling uncharacteristically generous in spirit, because I opened this and I’m thrilled that I did.

Emmett’s story may not be for everyone. That is a natural matter of perspective. What it did for me though was shuffle my thoughts into a rightful place.

A shackled man is being dropped into confinement for the next ten years and the fear of being raped or even surviving the first night is totally surpassed by an all-encompassing urge to take a pee. It’s absurdly mundane and devastatingly real at the same time. I can absolutely relate to a bursting bladder - but the rest?

I asked for real, and the universe delivered.

This was originally an inconsequential essay about, well, not much. Emmett has an extraordinary story worth reading, from a perspective that I will never fully understand. That is what makes it valuable. It’s so expressively unique that I am forced to sit down and eat my own words.

My life, of course worthy in its own right, has on the flip of the blade been somewhat pedestrian. Still shiny in the right light but won’t cut a steak. Granted, life is always a matter of perspective.

Suburban life growing up in Australia, I went to university to study Nursing then dropped out after the death of my Dad to travel through the UK, Europe and Asia before getting homesick for eucalyptus and the joviality of a kookaburra. Still hungry and restless and dipping in and out of experiences, I moved to a different state. There I learned to sail, and sunbake and fly by the seat of my half-drunk pants. Got married, had kids, divorced and then did a full 180 to live overseas in rural America. That was eye-opening, amazing and intrusive all at the same time. After four years I returned to Australia, worked hard for the man, bought a house and ticked all those “should” boxes like a benign corporate lamb does. There comes a point though (often many times in life) where hard choices are inevitable.

Feeling its weight, I left the soul sucking corporate prison behind with no future plans in place. I’ve never been tentative to pivot if things felt off or make such choices without seeing the road ahead. At the same time though, I can see where I’ve been staid. Where I’ve played the game too safely. Yes, I’ve had some outstanding adventures and also stumbled into some precarious situations. I’ve been emotionally challenged and caused an hilarious ruckus and have scars on the heart and mind. What next though? This is the million dollar question.

I’m not saying that unless you have been to prison your story is worthless.

What I am saying is that when one limits their perspective of the world to a narrowly defined window, the only adequate response is to inflate its sense of importance.

This puts me in a humbled, paradoxical place. My perspective is narrow so I inflate my own importance. Substack is in fact banking on it.

Emmett’s importance was deflated down to a number and his perspective was narrowed beyond reproach. He now writes from important personal experience on how “being free becomes a real double-edge sword.”

‘Self Portrait with Physalis’ by Egon Schiele, 1912. (Source) As a protege of Gustav Klimt, his impressionist works (often in exaggerated poses) show his struggle with identity through deep introspection. Schiele never hid the fact he was elevating his position through public works. His self-regard, and awareness of it, was evident.