Hello lovelies. Tonight finds me not as well as most, though definitely in a better state than I was not but few short hours ago - drenched in sweat and agony, a thick blind tied round my eyes and ears as the heady smoke of myrrh wafted over my shaking, sickly form. I felt wretched enough that I thought almost to have my dear husband come in that I might dictate to him, but decided against it, due to him being busy preparing for his trip to tour the campus tomorrow, and knowing how he is loathe to spend too much time in one place, particularly if he were forced to put to print any of my verbose ramblings. For those of you who haven't heard or have forgotten - I suffer from spells of photosensitivity and photophobia, the latter leaving me with devastating, even debilitating headaches. This past week has been rather rough, with this morning - or more precisely evening when I woke up - being the worst yet. Still being housebound for a while has its undeniable advantages, the foremost of these being the time to reflect and become better acquainted with my online friends, two strangely contrasting yet complimentary pass-times; one being the realm of the self-confessed introvert and the other being the specialty of my newly re-discovered social side.
This post has a lot to do with such dualism. I know light, dark, and the space between is something I've covered before, but after reading Simone de Beauvoir's 'Must We Burn Sade?' and my last couple of days' activities (which for decency's sake I'll not delve into here), I find my self curiously contemplative not on the 'good' or 'bad' sides of human nature, but rather on that which we hold privately and that which we want others to know, and with the way we reconcile the two. Sade, I know, thought long on the subject, as did many of those who've made a study of him, and I too have thought of these things from time to time; it wasn't till the starkly contrasting, nonsensical, ludicrous context of these last few day's events and conversations that such intrinsic meaning was assigned to this notion. Chiaroscuro - the term borrowed from Italian - means 'light-dark', and is, in art, the use of stark contrast of the two. Each of us is made up of such contrasts, whether we realize or admit it. But it is not simply the contrast of light and shadow that plays across each man's soul that defines him - it is also which side of this he hides and which he wears proudly to the world.
Nothing of man is concrete - not his body which ages and withers before rotting, nor his mind or heart swayed by passions or logic, nor even his soul that defines him. That is not to say that as we change we lose ourselves, a silly notion many cling to rather than looking ahead, but that we continually grow, adding onto ourselves. What we are and have done is set, and we cannot forget it but we should never let it rule us either. Our childhood dreams we might have abandoned as was needed of us, but not one person forgets who they once were and wanted to be. Every day changes us, and how we wish to be seen or thought of, who we want to be or think we should be more like. Speaking with a very good friend, he told me he felt like a pile of masks. That thought struck me, stuck with me - even if I only now pen it - in such a way. Looking at him I could see it, too. How he's had to hide who he is from most, the tired look of eyes grown used to lying. Each of us, though, is a pile of masks. We change ourselves to fit who and where we are; we have masks we where at school, masks for our families, masks even for our loved ones and friends - though perhaps the thickness of the mask does vary from situation to situation. Most of us do this so fluidly, thoughtlessly that we don't notice, others have more to hide, more they think or know would be frowned upon by those they must deal with.
Speaking with another friend - Artemus, my roommate and nearly my soul's twin in many ways - we discussed the complexity of humans, and their changes of heart and mind. Many people have contradictory aspects, things that make little sense to someone looking at them at first glance. People want life to make sense, to move in orderly lines, always in one direction, like words on a page. But souls are not words to be penned or inscribed on stone, and not all writing flows one way. The second part of my title deals with this (and my lingual obsession). Boustrophedonically read writing does not go in one direction, but rather wraps back and forth, as the passions and minds of men are often wont. I use this phrase because I love learning about writing and written language, but also because of the idea of cycles. I find it fascinating how we humans manage to swing from one end of a spectrum to the next, with different thoughts inspiring us as circumstance drags us about her whims and machinations; we find ourselves ever spiraling like moons about planets of our wants and will, who in turn orbit the vastness of the life's condition around us and its far-reaching effects.
Though each of us is the center reference point in our universes, we're all slaves to our needs who are in turn subject to the happenstance that surrounds us, determining just what those needs might be. People often fall into the trap of viewing themselves as the only main character in their lives, that everyone around them is flat background, there to contrast them, when in fact they feel the same of each other. We've all been guilty of it - as a child one thinks only of one's self, we are (hopefully) taught over time that others have wants and feelings as well, and we learn to work with others, taking these wants and feelings into consideration. It is the basis for all successful social interaction. It's when you get to the odder circumstances, needs, and wants where things get interesting. For instance, we grow up being told to play nice, to not hurt one another, that we should not enjoy pain and suffering. However, that pain and suffering, at times degradation or humiliation, even bodily harm sometimes happens to be what someone wants, even needs. For the longest time, my life and circumstance and relations with others had driven me to a state of morbidly vanilla pleasures. There was no one with the time or will or permission or what-have-you to play with, and I accepted this fate for a time. Recently things have changed, and I find myself at the verge of a brilliant rebirth, a renaissance of excess and debauchery, and a return to older days of less restraint (unless we're speaking literally) and new fun and adventures to be had.
Still, part of me couldn't help worrying that a return to such lifestyle might signal the end of my creative bursts, that such bestial pursuits would hamper my intellectual growth or reflection. I see now that it's quite the opposite. Such outlets let me explore myself and others in ways I'd never think of normally, to see the world from even more angles and viewpoints. Though I'll admit my thoughtful and lustful sides have a while to go before a true reconciliation which perhaps may never take place considering the society I live in, and despite my still present shyness of nature and voice, I feel I am well on the way to admitting the value of both aspects of myself, and to finding common ground between the two. From the vast array of conversations I've had recently - ranging all manner of subject, tone, and company - to my rediscovery of vices and loves I'd thought lost or forgotten (including Wagner), I've recently found myself having stumbled on a windfall of good company and spirits, like-minded fellows, and new ways of thinking old thoughts, and for that I am more grateful than words could ever say.
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