shellsjs1218: well, hun, in the end, u can't keep everyone u like
shellsjs1218: but u find more people u do like
shellsjs1218: only the very imp stay around

10th January 2007, 1:14 am

what is clingyness but an impossible complex about friendships? it is a
complex syndrome with an equally complex evolution. the cliched shy,
gawky grade-school girl-caterpillar first emerges from the confinement
forged from natural tendency, rigid upbringing, or a combination of
real and imagined unattractiveness to become the fragile
adolescent-butterfly. perhaps it was the crucial move away from a
stifling hometown, liberating it from a previous prison of social
expectation stronger than a cast-iron cocoon. perhaps it was the
much-needed blessing of a makeover by a glamorous girl-crush who knew
infinitely more about bras, boys, and Balenciaga. whatever it is, this
adolescent-butterfly begins as scarcely more than a mirage, only
shimmering shadow-wings that hide, when viewed at a distance, the
slightly fuzzy, squirming core.

as time progresses, one of two things can happen. the butterfly can be
trampled, often accidentally, wings torn and forever stuck on the sole
of some careless stranger's shoe while the caterpillar wriggles away
into the safety of the earth's cozy homeliness. or, it can continue to
grow, shedding skin after skin until it becomes hard, waxed of its
fuzziness, and utterly impregnable behind the pretense of new adulthood.

this living, writhing creature becomes a portrayal; a shiny portrayal
that manifests itself in a multiplicity of ways, from slightly
excessive, friendly facade to carefully chosen facebook photos with not
a single one straying from the ideal photographed angle. each photo is
a snapshot of faux life, capturing only the most Kodak of moments - the
clink of bubbling champagne, the softness of dimly-lit skin, the
wild-angled limbs from moments in flight, the kiss of ephemeral
friends. but behind this the fuzzy ugly creature is never lost, i
think. it only hides.

let's talk about the complex. it is fundamentally a complex borne of
fear. the creature's evolution of wants has come a long way since the
fully-grown butterfly was a humble worm. at first, when it was in the
wasteland of loneliness, it only wanted a close companion. a couple of
close ones would have been better, a group, a posse, a clique, a
steadfast haven from T.S. Eliot's hell.* when it finally got a couple
of friends, it yearned to please crowds, to be everyone's favourite
girl, even at the expense of being trampled on. then age and
disillusionment allows it to dust off the footprints of others'
careless missteps, and concentrate on the golden balance - not too many
friends by way of numbers, but each one preciously guarded and
treasured.

but it can never truly be comfortable in its skin because in the
wasteland of loneliness was a sandstorm of desolation, a sandstorm that
tears, ever so subtly, on the fabric of one's social confidence so that
the rents forever inhibit the ability to trust. to trust in what, i
cannot fully define, but i will try - it is not so much a simple trust
in others, i guess, but more a deeper trust in oneself, in one's
desirability, necessity, and ultimately, ability to be loved, fully and
purely, to keep and maintain a friendship for years, decades, a
lifetime.

and what's worse - life is always in flux. friendships come and go as
all things do, the good ones fleeting, the bad ones lingering.
rationally speaking, this is a natural evolution of changing
geographies, professions, interests (see the infinite wisdom of
schonmei up above). irrationally thinking, this is yet another
testament to one's imperfection, proof that nothing has changed about
the fuzzy, insignificant critter that nobody in their right mind would
regard as a worthy compatriot.

there is a room temperature i hate, approximately 65 degrees
fahrenheit. it is the canonical temperature of paralysis that is warm
enough so that turning the heater up cannot be justified, but cold
enough to chill me. i remember this temperature well. it was the
temperature of a dark corridor the mind once traversed while the
fingers played a sonata, anchored to the keys with fear, and the
sunlight slanted through the living room not beckoning, but taunting
and jeering with the threat of the social world. it is the temperature
at the dead of night, when the day's pleasant distractions and
conversations are at an and, for some reason, the ghosts of friendships
past diffuse through the windowshades and taunt as the sunlight once
did, dipping cool fingers to stir the doubt that one will, at the end
of the day, end up back in the wasteland, stripped of shell, stripped
of wings, only listening to the quiet rustle of the wind like happily
chattering voices beyond some horizon unseen.

~*~*~

now comes your question; i have predicted it from the beginning. you
are asking, in your mind, whether this creature is me. but this is
somewhat of a nonsensical question, because you already know it is me.

what i am asking is whether it is also you.

*"Hell is oneself, hell is alone." -T.S. Eliot

*~*~*~

Accompaniment to sketches no. 18 - my motivation, my release

Let me change the mood with a few sweet words that will, I hope,
serve as well as that music. As you know, the question we writers are
asked most often, the favourite question, is; why do you write? I write
because I have an innate need to write! I write because I can't do
normal work like other people. I write because I want to read books
like the ones I write. I write because I am angry at all of you, angry
at everyone. I write because I love sitting in a room all day writing.
I write because I can only partake in real life by changing it. I write
because I want others, all of us, the whole world, to know what sort of
life we lived, and continue to live, in Istanbul, in Turkey. I write
because I love the smell of paper, pen, and ink. I write because I
believe in literature, in the art of the novel, more than I believe in
anything else. I write because it is a habit, a passion. I write
because I am afraid of being forgotten. I write because I like the
glory and interest that writing brings. I write to be alone. Perhaps I
write because I hope to understand why I am so very, very angry at all
of you, so very, very angry at everyone. I write because I like to be
read. I write because once I have begun a novel, an essay, a page, I
want to finish it. I write because everyone expects me to write. I
write because I have a childish belief in the immortality of libraries,
and in the way my books sit on the shelf. I write because it is
exciting to turn all of life's beauties and riches into words. I write
not to tell a story, but to compose a story. I write because I wish to
escape from the foreboding that there is a place I must go but – just
as in a dream – I can't quite get there. I write because I have never managed to be happy. I write to be happy.

-Orhan Pamuk, Nobel acceptance speech
7th December, 2006