scaredy cat.

January 5, 2012

Yesterday, I went to a booktalk that was given by the ever amazingly effervescently wonderful Storm Large. (Probably 6 on my wouldgo gay for you list.) (1,2,3,4,&5 being Jill Hennessy, Mariska Hargitay, Stephanie March, Julianna Margulies and Amy Sedaris.) She did her shpeel in three parts: Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll. She spoke of being a public masturbator, tipping over a port-a-potty, and accidentally doing a shitload of smack, thinking it was cocaine. I think I’m in love.

Someone asked her during the Q&A if she ever gets embarrassed, and, after a hefty guffaw, she explained that she tries to make people as uncomfortable as possible so she can control the emotionality of the situation. In a way, as she explained it, her outspoken-ness (which I love about her) is a sort of defense mechanism. She, (like most), seeks to have the most control over any certain situation as she can.

It got me thinking, mostly about defense mechanisms. I haven’t emailed NPRi in awhile, but I thought about it yesterday. She is a ‘benevolent giver of wisdom’, in that she has this peculiar way of making you relish every dogmatic thing she says. It’s quite strange, but sometimes nice. I beamed down Burnside, blasting a cover of Annie Lennox’ “There Must Be an Angel” thinking about that evening I was in Central Park by the Sailboat pond and had the insatiable urge to turn off my iPod and just hear my breath. I dared myself to do running fl-aps across the intersection between 6th and 5th because I’d skipped tap to go to Powell’s; but I couldn’t figure out if that was the real reason. I missed a few, as expected, but overall it was fun and my pants got wet.

I had this thought like what if light just shot out my fingers, and should I skip down the park blocks because I feel like it, and was missing dance really worth it, and would DJ and Storm get along because they remind me of each other and she’d never be in town to take class so why am I thinking about it in the first place and wouldn’t it be funny if flowers just grew out of people’s heads and–

I’d made it to the bus stop.

If you’d asked, I wouldn’t have remembered the last two blocks. I wouldn’t have remembered pithy things my dad used to yell at me because I was busy imagining him being interrogated by rum-running mob bosses, or grammatical corrections Mrs. Powell made on my papers because I was picturing myself stabbing her in the neck with a pencil, or how boring American Theater was because I was writing in my journal or writing stories or imagining the entire New York Ballet Company dancing on the roof of the building next to us. I don’t have student loans, I have people like-loving each other on the subway. I don’t have worries, I have a woman I just made eye contact with and have decided to be in love with. I am sitting in class having a Pirate sword fight; and I don’t really give a shit what you think. Viscerally getting “lost” is awesome. I have reached a point in meditative imagination that I can lose all sense of time, place, and desire to do anything else.

What does this have to do with Storm Large, and NPRi, and public masturbation, among other things? I have come to realize that being imaginative, or creative or ~whatever~ is a defense mechanism. It’s evasive and escapist. Not in so short of terms to be like, “When I don’t want to be here, I escape into my imagination”; more like, “I don’t want to deal with this, I wish people had fishbowls for elbows.” I’ll hang on just enough to remain conscious, but check out just enough to placate my throbbing insides. I remember floating through crowds on fifth avenue, pretending I was Moses and wouldn’t it be great if I could just part the red sea and–

I’m a coward.

I face things by imagining them differently. Those 5th avenue bitchestouristsrichpeopleNEWJERSEY are still going to be there no matter how much I want to believe that I, like Moses, can part a fucking ocean.

Are all highly imaginative people cowards?

Yesterday, I was at the bus stop, musing about this. I’ve realized lately that I’ve become more of a stick in the mud.  My main problem is this: I can’t attach a negative connotation to something that is so fixated in my system. (I used to write fan-fiction about Barbie and Ken going on dates. Truth.) In the same vain, I need to strike a good balance of dealing with things as they come, and not being a raving evasive lunatic. (“Oh, you want to talk to Mac? She’s busy having tea with Jesus in Mordor. She’ll get back to you.”)

When I was walking home, I decided to practice a combo I learned awhile ago and suck at. No one was driving by, so I went for it.

Chasse-chasse-step-jete-step.

It was wholly fulfilling.

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