This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for people who do and say things (mostly say things) that I find funny. By ”˜funny’ I mean incomprehensible, shamelessly exposed, or what can only be referred to as ”˜human.’ As in, her frailty/self-aggrandizement/affection is so human.
I am thankful for the things I witness or overhear that allow me, for a moment, to condescend. I’m not talking about disdain or outright ridicule, but something like a scoff that eclipses my whole being. I observe two people talking and indulge in the idea that I understand things they do not—things about them. The idea is either some variation of ”˜that’s so cute’, or an expression of genuine surprise at ”˜funny’ behaviors (see above definition).
It’s what follows the moment or idea that is really good. Self-indulgence morphs into self-awareness, which invariably grows into self-dissection, which is a hairy and spiraling effort. Just after total eclipse, when I am high off enthrallment, I begin to feel a little off-center. There’s a pang of guilt, an acknowledgment of my own small-mindedness, and embarrassment as I remember my own list of funnynesses.
At that point I am just obliterated. I mean, seriously, for the rest of the day I can barely move. I can’t think or write, I just volley between the pleasure and remorse of [things said and done]. The moment is exploded**; I can’t see the forest for the trees. Should I feel innocent and defend my right to condescend? Should I be ashamed of how I arrogantly distance myself from others, regarding them as entertainment? Yes and yes and yes and yes and yes and yes. We all look at each other this way, and we all know it, paradox being that we are united in our self-serving interpretations of the world.
I am thankful for the awfully funny things that make me think about how awfully funny I am.
Recently there have been an overwhelming number of exchanges that made me feel simultaneously better and worse about myself. Without further ado, I present to you one such exchange that left me thinking, I hate you both:this could be me:is this me?:
Two middle-aged women, both PhD Candidates in Depth Psychology at Pacifica Graduate Institute. Seated directly in front of me in a coffee shop and speaking very loudly, so I can’t help but see and overhear. I made up the names, but I assure you these are direct quotes (I was typing lines in gmail chat).
Linda: Somehow you have to go through the darkness to reach hope.
Cassandra: Exactly, Ring of Power is an excellent book written about Lord of the Rings, but from woman's perspective. No wait, its called...something about a ring?
L: Lord of the Rings is a profound depiction of [mumble mumble] because everyone has to work together, bringing their rings and uniting the powers.
C: Yes, that is so profound. I just think a lot of the metaphor of the wounded womb is very esoteric until—
L: The esoteric is the secret of the inner secret society that has their own dialogue.
C: Wow. Uh huh. I just mean when you look at the image of virgin pregnancy—
L: Right! I had this moment--it’s like, Darwin didn’t know everything--and I understood virgin pregnancy. When you really understand it, it is the most profound thing I have ever experienced.
C: Wow. What do you— I mean, what can you— How do you bring the metaphors—
L: For this assignment, right, I’m gonna have a left hand poem and a right hand poem. In a metaphorical way, I am gonna say that to reach the metaphysical we have to leave the womb. The first metaphor that came to me was, ”˜In the hot bed of the [mumble mumble] scabby puss of our narcissisical scum.’
C: [mumble mumble]
L: Then it could go to something like, say, ”˜Volcanic rage seeps through the morbid pustules of...,’ whatever. I'm still bringing it back to the womb.
I had two other little dialogues I wanted to include, but now I kind of feel like a jerk. Instead, I think this quote from Joseph Campbell is fitting in regards to not only how we experience life, but how we perceive life as we are experiencing it; in other words, the kinds of observations I have been talking about:
It’s a wonderful, wonderful opera, except that it hurts.
**ex·plod·ed, adj
showing the parts of something as separate items in a diagram, but with their relative positions maintained
(I don't think you guys need a definition, I just found this one particularly satisfying.)
