So, post-class, I'm sitting at my desk in Summit, sipping a rebujito (for y'all that don't hablar el espanol, that's a mixture of red wine and citrus soda--in my case, Sierra Mist. Really quite delicious; I highly recommend it), and pondering how on November 20th last year, at this hour U.S. time, I was fetally scrunched on a too-short couch in Germany in the dark. Freezing, isolated, I cried carefully, quietly, into borrowed blankets, curled across the room from the only man for whose love I've ever truly ached. I didn't reach for him, he didn't reach for me. Ten feet intervened and I let them--spatial anxiety lasted four nights. By the second, I'd stopped crying and pulled up my coat collar against the cold, literal and figurative. And you know--I never put up a fight. I'd like to think I'm smarter than that now, but until I'm put in such a situation again I s'pose I can't be sure. I do know that I was vulnerable then, soft. I believed in his well-intended ambivalence, and he believed me when I said it was okay. I'm not soft now. I'm keen as a gimlet-point and unequivocating. I am skeptical. I draw a steady bead on the foreheads of all y-dominants and say "Here. This is me. You don't like it? Walk away, because I'd rather be alone than dishonest." Those're all things for which I simultaneously congratulate and loathe myself. Because of class, I'm pondering persona and true self, thinking how different I am now, yet how fixed I've always been. Funny how 365 days can change both so much and so little.
Secular confessional* indeed.
In class, Kirsten (or maybe Sara?) posited that the pseudonyms we select for ourselves tell something about who we are. I smirked to myself; slothsinabox, I thought? of course that's indicative of me. (*snark*) In some ways it is, in some it isn't. I am not lazy. I do not think inside the box. The name slothsinabox first positioned itself in my head this summer at my fabulous internship with marketing and design firm Fathom. Anthony (vegan, significant other to a fantastic vegan chef of whose cookbook I am editor, an advocate, a very original, leftofcenter individual and one of my favorite people in the world, ever) and I were talking about the band Mogwai. I Google imaged mogwai and came up with the picture that you now see as my avatar/icon/whatever it is. "Oh my God!" I squealed, "I LOVE them. They're so real and so fake at the same time!"
Highly intelligent statement, Caitlin, congrats.
Do I sound like a valley girl? Sure. But was the dimwitted observation unwittingly appropriate? I think so.
I hate being pigeonholed. In fact, I refuse. I have consciously always been just a bit contentious. I like being somewhat of a contradiction. I am a well-dressed nerd. I am a socially competent dork. I am a confident insecure person. I am 100% overanalytical English Lit major (that one I won't argue). Slothsinabox? Taken at face value, it's not at all me. By presenting such a bizarre internet persona, I suppose I unconsciously challenge people who visit my blog to untangle what that actually means. I am whimsical (in the words of smart and savvy lednik); I like irreverent, bizarre things. At the same time, I'm also cripplingly occupied with unpacking the meaning behind every single action and thought. I am serious and pensive while being lighthearted and entirely unable to carry on a conversation without making a joke of myself. So I guess slothsinabox is indicative of who I am--but only if you dig. Or if you read this entry. (grin).
As class wrapped up tonight Colin said that he didn't know what kinds of implications come with blog anonymity and people allowing themselves to, in a rather self-aggrandizing manner, adopt an exaggerated version of themsleves. I for one hope that permitting these exaggerated blog personas to co-opt at least a small portion of our realtime existence will allow us to have more authentic interactions with one another. If I had a nickel for every time a little more honesty would've fixed an unhappy ending or an unfortunate situation that only occurred out of insecurity or a dogged, half-hearted allegiance to social conventions, I'd be a rich woman without any student loans and a fleet of jet skis. Not to mention two bionic hips.
I sincerely hope that the blogosphere's respect for honesty, forthrightness and tendencies towards the incendiary and blisteringly honest make for more authentic face-to-face human interactions. I'm going to watch for it. I'm going to promote it much as I'm able. We'll see how it goes.
Now, to enjoy a night of college before I'm home for days, working on my thesis. Turkey, mom and dad. I'm happy. I'm excited for my last Thanksgiving return home as a student for a while (hopefully, next year will see me in Spain, teaching English).
Man, I really do love blog class.
*sophisticated and apt expression brought to you by the genius of Trinity's own David Calder.