Life--

if only we had a script, maybe then we would know when to be up close, and when to keep our distance.

Oh, To Be A Genius Instead of So Darn Cute

In one of my classes, we have been looking at the design elements of various web sites. One of the ones that caught my eye was the highIQsociety. Later that evening I checked the site out more closely and though I already know I am no genius, I had to take a couple of the tests, just to see what kind of questions they would ask.

I have never been any good at the questions that show you triangles with dots and colors on them and then ask you to choose which drawing would be next in the pattern sequence. It annoys me that I cannot see straight away what the pattern is and thus, can't for the life of me figure out what comes next.

Then there are the questions like this one:

Bloody sock is to ______ as festering ankle sore is to a) Yossarian, b) Pirrip, c)Prynne, d)Raskolnikov, e)Meussault

And this:

What word can be added to each of these to create new words? --Fish, Board, Glaze--

Looking at it now, I can see that maybe what they want is one single word that could be added to each of those words. And I bet the answer would be immediately obvious to any genius seeing the question. There is one small problem. I am not a genius.

And I have no patience with silly little details like that. On those questions, I simply make something up and go on to the next question. Even though I guessed at half of the questions (at least), it turns out I am normal, high normal (as if that is any consolation). I did not even bump my head on the ceiling of above average, dang it. I am just plain old normal, high normal.

But here is what I thought about. What if---what if I did not have that annoying habit of not taking those tests seriously, what if I would actually try to answer the questions, instead of dismissing them as stupid, (the nerve of normal me) might there be a budding genius lurking deep inside me that just needs a little nurturing? Is the problem that I am not applying myself? If I tried harder, would I at least qualify as above average instead of just plain old normal? I know in my little heart that the answer to that question is unequivocally, "no".

I had a friend once who had a habit of peppering his speech with the occasional "f-bomb", and when he was going to meet my mother, I asked him if he thought he could "be good" long enough not to use any words that might insult her. His answer was that he would have to study for it. Apparently it works to study for being good, because his vocabulary was as clean as my mother's, if only for the time he was visiting with her. But I don't think it would do any good to study to become a genius. Trying harder will not make me taller, nor make my feet smaller; trying harder will not make me a genius. It is sort of like being pregnant, either you are or you aren't. And I am not (I am not pregnant, nor am I a genius. I am smart enough to recognize that the previous sentence, "And I am not" was ambiguous, and have here clarified said sentence).

Sometimes being just normal, even high normal, bugs me. It just seems like I ought to be able to understand the concepts of higher intelligence. It is one of the things that frustrated me in my attempt to pass my Algebra class. I thought I ought to be able to understand Algebra, and having passed the class, it seems I ought to be able to move into even higher mathematical ground. But mathematics ain't for everybody.

I happen to know a mathematical genius type person and he sent me a copy of one of his published papers on higher mathematics to peruse. I am no genius, but I am perpetually curious about how these people of higher intelligence operate. He wasn't bragging or showing off. I asked to see the thing because I was so sure that if I just read the paper, I would understand at least a sliver of the concept they were writing about. Well, I was wrong. I don't know how they got that paper published in the first place. It was full of gobbledy-goo.

So, yeah, I know it is a burden to be a genius, just like it is a burden to be rich, or beautiful, but sometimes I just can't help myself, I wish I could be a genius. I think part of the reason for that is the desire to be something above normal in some area of my life, a need to be outstanding in a field, rather than being relegated to simply being out standing in a field. Did you geniuses catch that play on words?

A Note for Anais Nin

"She lacks confidence, she craves admiration insatiably. She lives on the reflections of herself in the eyes of others. She does not dare to be herself." Anais Nin

Dear Anais,

That's a rather harsh thing for you to have said, and very judgmental. It isn't very nice either. You could have been talking about me, you know. I don't often admit to myself that I crave admiration, but I do. I want to be admired, but it goes against all the "good girl" teachings that I have ever been taught, the ones about being humble and gracious and compliant. So many of those "good girl" traits have turned on me in the last few years. I thought it was good to be humble and gracious and compliant. And geez, I just can't help it, I've done it so long, lived off reflections of myself in someone else's eyes. If I am not seeing myself reflected in the eyes of others, I can't be sure I exist.

"There were always in me, two women at least, one woman desperate and bewildered, who felt she was drowning and another who would leap into a scene, as upon a stage, conceal her true emotions because they were weaknesses, helplessness, despair, and present to the world only a smile, an eagerness, curiosity, enthusiasm, interest." Anais Nin

Well, see there, Ms. Nin--Ms. Judgmental--you are not without your own shortcomings. And here I thought you were so confident. It must have been so hard on you concealing your emotions like that. Did you ever get so good at it that you could no longer feel anything? That's what happens when we refuse to feel the feelings we judge to be bad. We become numb, and we can no longer feel the good feelings. We lose the ability to feel altogether. Why do we so often have to present that courageous front, only to deny the weaker side of ourselves? Why do we ignore our weaknesses like a red-headed step-child? Why can't we embrace our weaknesses as well as our strengths?

"You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book (Lady Chatterley, for instance), or you take a trip, or you talk with Richard, and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony. Boredom. Death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death." Anais Nin

We could talk about this Anais, but you went and died. I wonder, did a "shock treatment" ever awaken you? I know for myself, those "shock treatments", whether it is a person, a book, or a song, they wear off too quickly. Those things are similar to the self being reflected in the eyes of another. They are outside influences. Sooner or later, the person moves on, the book ends, and the song fades and we are left again with the shell that is our self. Surely there has to be something of value within our selves, Anais, something that remains though all else takes leave, something that is there within us that is ours alone, and not dependent on being reflected in the eyes of another, or in the pages of a book, or in the melody of a song. Did the Creator miss an ingredient when he crafted us Anais? Is there something lacking in us? Or are we just blind to our own weird beauty?

There is something else, Anais. The pursuit of the "shock treatment" becomes like an addiction. The effects of the new person, the fresh book, the melodic song wears off too soon, and the hunger returns, and we get this raw sense of desperation, trying to feed ourselves, trying to fill those empty spots that we think must be filled. Maybe sometimes we just need to accept that the adage "less is more" applies to more than just interior design. Maybe we need to embrace the empty spots of our souls and quit looking for the next "fix" to spark our lonely little lives. Maybe it is good to live a little on the hungry side, to be lean, as opposed to being fat and full. I don't know Anais, don't listen to me, I'm just doing a little free-writing here. Don't take me too seriously. It's just some stuff we could talk about, if you were alive.

You said your diary was "the only steadfast friend I have, the only one which makes my life bearable, because my happiness with human beings is so precarious, my confiding moods, rare, and the least sign of non-interest is enough to silence me. In the journal, I am at ease."

Maybe we could have been friends. Though I don't know, from what little I have heard, you sound like you had a bit of a flamboyant streak in you. I can't be flamboyant Anias, I just can't. But dang, I know exactly what you mean about the least sign of non-interest being enough to silence you. It's that "good girl" mentality. We crave the intimacy of close friendships, and yet, we don't want to be a bother to anyone. We think we are the only ones who are hibernating, and not living, so we keep our mouths shut and write our little secrets in our journals, longing for friendship, but afraid to be a friend. And no one else ever knows, until we are dead and gone, and all the clutter of our lives is being removed by those we leave behind. And even then, they may not look at our journals. They may just toss them into the trash with the old college notebooks.

"My dear diary, it is Anais who is speaking to you, and not somebody who thinks as everybody should think. Dear diary, pity me but listen to me."

Yeah well, Anais, that plea might just be a cop-out. We can hide in the pages of our diaries, Anais. We can write and pour out our very souls, and no one will ask us "why don't you do this?" or "why do you put up with that behavior?" or "why in the name of goodness do you never think things through?" No one will challenge us to change, to stretch and grow. Yes, Anais, the damn diary will listen ever so patiently, but honestly, what does it give us in return? Can the diary hold your hand? Can the diary open arms to hug you, to hold you while you cry? Can the diary praise you? Can the diary celebrate your victories with you? Can the diary look you in the eyes and share your pain?

That's what I thought, Anais. The diary itself is a place to hibernate, a safe place where we can be sure we will not have to do anything but write with great flair about our loneliness.

Sorry if I have been a bit blunt Anais. I am still looking for your books. I want to read your words in context, to interpret them within the proper framework. Could you ever have imagined your words would have an impact on women so far removed from your generation? I guess that means there is value in those words we so lovingly inscribe in our little books. It is comforting to know that I can identify with your words. Comforting to know that someone else, in another time, felt the way I feel today. I am your future Anais. I am one who has seen your words, and I have gained insight from them. Thanks, Anais.

Fondly,
Annie

She Who Dreams Big Dreams

The Pollyanna in me likes the optimistic idea that we are always on a threshold, always able to see another horizon beckoning. And though I am not much of a romantic, even I will admit that there is romance in the beckoning of a new horizon.



But on days like today, it just drives me nuts to think of yet another horizon beckoning. Can't I just sit awhile and enjoy the view?




Do I have to climb another staircase, chasing after yet another horizon? You know what that means, don't you? It means I have to say goodbye to the threshold I am now standing upon. It means change, it means challenges to my status quo. It means feeling like a kid being pushed into the first grade class room on the first day of school all over again. Oh, I know, I don't have to leave my threshold. I can stay right there and watch my life pass on by. Eventually, someone will probably bring me a rocking chair and I can rock and snooze where it is nice and safe.



I can't afford the luxury of a rocking chair because I am one who dreams big dreams and then I wake myself up with my snoring, and the dream that was once so clear is only a blur.



Still, doesn't this look like the perfect place to stop and rest?

Where Does My Time Go?

I've been a little distracted the last few days. School has started back and I have been adjusting to getting my game face on early and showing up for class. I am taking a web design class this semester and on the first day, the teacher recommended a site with a tutorial on html. I have been curious about learning more about how to write code, and so I checked it out.

I breezed through the first lesson and in the second lesson I hit a wall. The problem was that I needed to save the file as a text file. I could do that all right, but for some reason, still unbeknownst to me, my computer can not find notepad to open the text document. For three days now, I have been trying every which way I can to save my html practice document and to get it to open successfully. I don't know what it is about me that I will try the same thing fifteen times thinking maybe I am doing something wrong, and hoping that the very next try will be the one that will work. Reminds me of why I so identify with "life lesson #23: Heads bleed. Walls don't."

However, where there is a will, there is a way. And do I have a will (at least when it comes to certain trivial pursuits as this!). I think the most marvelous thing about computers is that there is always more than one way to skin a cat (FYI, I think the the most vexing thing about computers is that they will not let you be the boss!). This afternoon, I finally found a way to sucessfully torture myself by trying to write my own html code. I found that we have Microsoft's Front Page on our computer, and have been playing around in there this afternoon. I hope to be able to design a new blog template eventually, which, come to think of it, I should be able to do anyway by the end of the semester at least, because of the web page design class, which is really a class in learning to use the Dreamweaver software program to take care of the silly little details of html.

Another little distraction is the discovery that I can use watercolor pencils to shade in and add color to the pages of my paper journal, and that I can use them to paint the background on the Artist's Trading Cards that I have grown so find of creating. They are so small, and it hardly takes any time to color in a page in my journal, and then to smooth the color out with a damp cotton ball. That's how I made the background in the collage that was posted before this post. Watercolors are so pretty.

Finally, here is a funlittlesite to while away the hours, even for non-artiste types! Try painting a message to go along with your drawing. I painted two or three myself and framed them and hung them on the gallery wall, right next to the Mona Lisa. They looked good.

I Must Confess

I don't always wash my hands afterwards,
and I don't always do it in private.