Yesterday was an interesting day for me. I was inspired to do some “close reading” in a sense about who I am, what I’m doing, and where I’m going. I’m guessing that’s because “that guy” said I was a bit of a mess. I still think he owes me to tell me himself, but whatever. I’m sure I’ll run into him one day soon. And that’s fine that he said that, we all have crap. His crap is becoming more apparent every day; he’s more of a wimp than I am. But what I didn’t even imagine as I was going about my daily routine, is that in my attempt to keep busy, that I’d realize that I’m fine. Really, I am. I’m embracing my “uniqueness” and the crap that I have. It defines me and is what makes me special and not boring. And I realized that in my definition of myself, I forgot hyperbole; I over exaggerate everything with the childlike excitement that I have. When something’s good, I want more- just like a little kid. If I see a huge ass hill that I want to roll down, I will. I take life on because I want to experience it and feel like that little kid; oftentimes I do.
Sunday my wrench light came on in my car; the car that JUST went over the warranty mileage. It’s the throttle body. And apparently it’s a common problem with my type of vehicle, is intermittent, and has so many complaints that everything I read about it says that it will soon be recalled. But I have no patience and googled how to fix it. I can do it and probably will. I also am totally excited to have gotten the official call about my Obama fridge and will be getting it just before Christmas. I also went through my filing cabinet to sort and/or toss stuff out, but got so distracted with the contents of it that it made me realize that while I may be a “mess” to others, I’m proud of just how far I’ve come in the last few years- actually 3. Just over three years ago, I was unemployed, jobless, and living with my parents after losing my marital home. No clue what happened, but one day, after looking and looking for a job, I decided to return to college to finish my degree. At the same time, I found a job and decided that it was time to get my own place. So, almost exactly 3 years ago, I started fixing my “mess.” I busted my ass and worked and went to school full time. Oh, and I also got an academic scholarship cause I’m an overachiever as well. But since then, I bought a car (the one that needs the throttle body) to build my credit up, so that I could buy a house. I did all of that and even graduated with honors. And the papers I went through in the filing cabinet were a reminder of all this. I also found my poetry portfolio from class and tons of essays. I really have come a long way since that first semester creative writing class.
I read about the problematic’s of English Literary Studies and how they encompass too broad a scope to stimulate proper learning in the area of which a student has preference. In my case, it’s with theory and historical/cultural studies. I like to know what makes people think what they do, and we have already established that I over-analyze everything. It probably comes as no shock to anyone that my all time favorite philosopher is Jacques Derrida. While writing is an expression of ideas, thoughts, and communication, it can only be interpreted and made meaningful in relation to the language and experiences of the reader. What’s more intriguing is that the intention of the author is never really known or interpreted properly because the crap we all have (that we need to make meaning of it) is different- leading to contradicting meanings in relation to the text. And while that’s perfectly ok, there’s a point to where the number of possible contradictory interpretations of a particular text end: the aporia. But if we all already have our own interpretation and we’re satisfied with it, what’s to inspire a reader to seek out the truth? That’s where the problems of writing come into play. And tying all of this in to me, I am my own aporia really, just waiting to be properly interpreted. But still I write…hoping for my words to be read with the intended interpretation that they were written for.