I'm sorry that I haven't updated in a while. I forget I have the blog (and I post a lot more on Tumblr because that's where many of my friends are, even more than on Facebook) so I don't write here a lot. I need to rectify that, but when life calms down a little, I will. Anyway, I'm here because I had another semi-weighty introspective-with-external-consequences thought/ scenario that's better for this format than on social networking (although, depending on how I feel, I may cross-post it to Tumblr too).
I have depression and I struggle with it quite a bit, but I'm on meds now and the general pervasiveness of depression has more or less lifted which is great. But that doesn't mean that it doesn't come back with violence when things arise and I invariably get down on myself. And part of getting down on myself comes from my discomfort with my appearance. Now, rationally, I know I'm not that bad looking. Emotionally, however, I think I'm the most hideous being to walk this earth. But I think that's kind of understandable since most of us are our own worst critics. Many of my friends know I think this about myself and they come to my aid, telling me I'm handsome, or hot, or adorable. And I appreciate this immeasurably since it fights against all those self-defeating beliefs I've had since childhood. I won't discourage it because it is sweet of them and it helps bolster me up a little bit, even if I don't believe it completely. But because I know rationally that I'm not the most revolting creature on the planet, often I feel like saying, "no, being attractive is NOT the issue," because it's not.
I grabbed food with a few of my friends the other night and then we went back to one of their apartments to eat it. As we were strewn about the living room like cats after gorging ourselves, one of them asked me about my date (which I haven't spoken to anyone about because I don't want to jinx it) and I admitted to how awkward and uncomfortable I was, not because of my date, but because of myself and how ill-at-ease I am in public. The inevitable ad lib chorus of "but you're not ugly" went around the room and I facepalmed. I facepalmed hard. And so I tried to explain it to them, not because I wasn't appreciative, but because it illustrates just how clueless they all are. So I told them it wasn't a matter of being ugly because I, deep down, know that I am not. I told them it's a matter of looking ridiculous.
I told them, if they wanted to replicate how it feels (all of them are quite attractive themselves), it would be easy to do. I told them to wear red clown noses (not the cheap foam ones at party stores, but decent quality ProKnows ones that fit their noses for comfort) for a month. Doesn't have to be big. Can be as small as they like. No taking it off. Not for bed, not for work, not for school, not for grocery shopping, not for hanging out with their friends. And they would feel it every day. And look at it every day. And everyone else would look at it too. It wouldn't change their face. They would still be quite attractive, but they would look ridiculous, and no one would take them seriously, and people would stare at them and talk about them and point and regard them as objects rather than as people. And everyone in the room got a look in their eyes like "oh shit." I think they understood.
Thursday, July 16, 2015
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
New People and the Resulting Annoyances
I have been meeting a lot of new people lately. We are more than halfway through the semester and it feels like I have had a tidal wave of new students looking for a reliable multi-divisional tutor so I have had my free time eaten up by working with students (or working through the newer textbooks myself just to make sure that I am up-to-date on my information). At the main job, the fall temps are leaving come November and the new temps are coming in for the winter, which is still essentially a skeleton staff since our events are highly concentrated around the holidays and then nothing for months. They've also been sending me to dance classes to refresh and learn new things. It sounds silly, but it's been very helpful, and I've been pushing for it for a long time since I am their only full-time performer and that kind of makes me the star of the show (which is the lie I tell myself to make me feel better about my job, which is actually not a bad job, but I am so deeply ashamed of it). And then I've been trying to get familiar with my future students at the new dance studio, sitting in on classes or guest teaching when I am able.
There are many new people in my life. And new people mean a bunch of different things: more anxiety, more bullshit, more explanations I need to make, more nasty comments. I've been bracing myself and my family's been scolding me for being so tense lately. But surprisingly, most people have been pretty good, pretty accepting. By general rule too, the younger the person, the better they are about it. My future students have all been good, a couple asked if my scars hurt or how I got them. New temps have been annoying, but they always are, mostly because I'm in makeup a lot so they don't see them right away and then they act all shocked and horrified because they didn't know. But one new guy is being exceptionally obnoxious and trying to spread the rumor that they're self-inflicted for sympathy (and I say "trying" because fortunately everyone knows me well enough to know better). My students usually find me through Dad so they already know what they're getting into with me. But it's the 40+ yr olds that can't behave themselves or keep their mouths shut.
I can't even keep track about how many say really nasty things about me while I am STANDING RIGHT THERE. How I shouldn't be allowed out in public. How they won't take a class if I'm teaching it because they can't take me seriously. How I should have the decency to get "some kind of surgery.' How no one could be expected to look at me for a whole class period. Really nasty things. It's like high school all over again. People have no boundaries either. One guy grabbed my face a few nights ago when I was teaching foxtrot (adult group) as a guest teacher (regular had an emergency) to see if they were real and what they felt like. First of all, I have to know you and like you to let you touch me and secondly, you don't touch my face unless I consider you family, and that's a grand total of five people. Needless to say, this guy is not one of them. I almost decked him. He got pissed off at me though when I pulled away and told him that wasn't acceptable, not to do it again. He made a complaint. Fortunately, the studio sided with me but I'm already getting complaints before I even start working there as a regular and I'm already rather stressed thinking that the studio will reconsider my job (and of course they will if I make enough people complain about me, if only because they're uncomfortable looking at me or can't keep their hands to themselves, ugh for customer-is-always-right mentality). And if these people sign up for my classes, I can't say no. And if these people go to the management and say that they won't sign up for my classes because of me, then I really may lose my job, even if it's not my fault.
Like I said, new people = stress. And I should be really happy. I have a plan for the next year to keep a relatively steady income and yet.... The bullshit. I'm so tired of it.
There are many new people in my life. And new people mean a bunch of different things: more anxiety, more bullshit, more explanations I need to make, more nasty comments. I've been bracing myself and my family's been scolding me for being so tense lately. But surprisingly, most people have been pretty good, pretty accepting. By general rule too, the younger the person, the better they are about it. My future students have all been good, a couple asked if my scars hurt or how I got them. New temps have been annoying, but they always are, mostly because I'm in makeup a lot so they don't see them right away and then they act all shocked and horrified because they didn't know. But one new guy is being exceptionally obnoxious and trying to spread the rumor that they're self-inflicted for sympathy (and I say "trying" because fortunately everyone knows me well enough to know better). My students usually find me through Dad so they already know what they're getting into with me. But it's the 40+ yr olds that can't behave themselves or keep their mouths shut.
I can't even keep track about how many say really nasty things about me while I am STANDING RIGHT THERE. How I shouldn't be allowed out in public. How they won't take a class if I'm teaching it because they can't take me seriously. How I should have the decency to get "some kind of surgery.' How no one could be expected to look at me for a whole class period. Really nasty things. It's like high school all over again. People have no boundaries either. One guy grabbed my face a few nights ago when I was teaching foxtrot (adult group) as a guest teacher (regular had an emergency) to see if they were real and what they felt like. First of all, I have to know you and like you to let you touch me and secondly, you don't touch my face unless I consider you family, and that's a grand total of five people. Needless to say, this guy is not one of them. I almost decked him. He got pissed off at me though when I pulled away and told him that wasn't acceptable, not to do it again. He made a complaint. Fortunately, the studio sided with me but I'm already getting complaints before I even start working there as a regular and I'm already rather stressed thinking that the studio will reconsider my job (and of course they will if I make enough people complain about me, if only because they're uncomfortable looking at me or can't keep their hands to themselves, ugh for customer-is-always-right mentality). And if these people sign up for my classes, I can't say no. And if these people go to the management and say that they won't sign up for my classes because of me, then I really may lose my job, even if it's not my fault.
Like I said, new people = stress. And I should be really happy. I have a plan for the next year to keep a relatively steady income and yet.... The bullshit. I'm so tired of it.
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
My Day Off
I ended up having a pretty wonderful day off yesterday. Dea had classes in the morning and in the evening with a huge break between, so I went over to her school to spend the down-time with her and bother Dad because he doesn’t get enough of that at home. Orson introduced me to two of his students this semester, both of whom seemed to have heard of me since one of them mentioned the possibility of needing tutoring for his chemistry classes.
I took the liberty of reserving one of the auditoriums (it’s not a black box theater but the stage is collapsible and they use folding chairs for seats, so otherwise it is completely bare, as it was today, and it has a great dance floor) and surprised Dea by bringing her there for an extended dancing session.
It was very relaxed day, not full of chores and errands like most of my days off tend to be. And although Dea and I haven’t been able to dance together this year as much as we usually do (we usually do one or two competitions by the time October comes around), I think we probably had more fun tripping over each other today in an effort to reclaim our of-late unused muscle-memory. But we also have our best conversations when we’re dancing together. We never shut up. Someone even poked their head in to tell us we were laughing too loudly.
We had dinner on campus afterward but brought it out to the quad to have a picnic of a sort before she had to go to her physics class. She conned me into painting her toenails tonight when we got home and she had me butcher French at her all the while (un cheval porte un manteau vert, if you’re looking for an example of my stellar aptitude, and yes, I am very much aware that I just said a horse wears a green coat, but when she asks me to begin a conversation, it’s dead silence or saying something absurd, and I will always go for the latter). I read a bit to her afterward (we’re still not through the Well of Lost Plots) and I put her to bed when she fell asleep on me.
The day was pretty much perfect.
I took the liberty of reserving one of the auditoriums (it’s not a black box theater but the stage is collapsible and they use folding chairs for seats, so otherwise it is completely bare, as it was today, and it has a great dance floor) and surprised Dea by bringing her there for an extended dancing session.
It was very relaxed day, not full of chores and errands like most of my days off tend to be. And although Dea and I haven’t been able to dance together this year as much as we usually do (we usually do one or two competitions by the time October comes around), I think we probably had more fun tripping over each other today in an effort to reclaim our of-late unused muscle-memory. But we also have our best conversations when we’re dancing together. We never shut up. Someone even poked their head in to tell us we were laughing too loudly.
We had dinner on campus afterward but brought it out to the quad to have a picnic of a sort before she had to go to her physics class. She conned me into painting her toenails tonight when we got home and she had me butcher French at her all the while (un cheval porte un manteau vert, if you’re looking for an example of my stellar aptitude, and yes, I am very much aware that I just said a horse wears a green coat, but when she asks me to begin a conversation, it’s dead silence or saying something absurd, and I will always go for the latter). I read a bit to her afterward (we’re still not through the Well of Lost Plots) and I put her to bed when she fell asleep on me.
The day was pretty much perfect.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Being Emo and I Apologize
I had the movie The Elephant Man on tonight last night. Dea came home towards the end and stopped in the doorway. She knows it is one of the movies that I don’t watch so much as cry-my-way-through. And she asked, point blank, “why do you do it to yourself?”
And it’s a valid question, I suppose. I don’t know why I do it to myself. Masochism? Catharsis? Maybe I just need permission to cry. No idea.
There are select movies that can cause me to weep through them. I love them, but they cannot be watched very often. I only put them on when I need to work something out of my system. And my watching is not limited because I weep uncontrollably, but because they do something to me, alter me for a little while. I get extremely introspective. It's almost like defragmenting myself. I do a self-assessment. I explore all those negative sectors. It takes a while. When I'm done, I'm better for it, a little more organized, possessing a little better perspective. But to get to the better end, I fall apart, mentally, emotionally.
When I went to bed last night, I was still in this highly vulnerable state. And Dea, angel that she is, came in to check on me. She settled herself beside me, her arm over me, her head against my chest, and I broke down and cried at her for who knows how long, interrupted only by my profuse apologizing. I'm not even sure what I was crying about, if I was crying about anything specific, or if I was apologizing for crying or for something else entirely.
She ended up spending the night (all completely chaste). I woke to her, still wrapped up in my arms, still sleeping. And I felt so much better. And so much worse. And I wanted to weep all over again. For all that love and all that trust, no matter how equally matched we are in both for each other, I don't feel worthy of it. I don't think we idolize each other. I think we are both too aware of each other's faults to consider even thinking of each other as paragons. But she adores me in a way I cannot comprehend because I'm not exceptional in any way, not extremely talented, not extremely patient, not even extremely kind.
For all that I am older and stronger than she and the most responsible member of the household, I'm not very good at this life-thing. I blunder my way through it. I pretend at confidence. I fake joy. Even when I am closest to bliss, like this morning with her contentedly beside me, I ache with an inexplicable misery. And it sounds so emo, I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I know how to be happy. I am sure I have the potential to be, but I don't know how to access it. And maybe that's why I watch films that destroy me, because I'm looking for something I cannot find so it's better to take it all apart and sort through it one item at a time.
And it’s a valid question, I suppose. I don’t know why I do it to myself. Masochism? Catharsis? Maybe I just need permission to cry. No idea.
There are select movies that can cause me to weep through them. I love them, but they cannot be watched very often. I only put them on when I need to work something out of my system. And my watching is not limited because I weep uncontrollably, but because they do something to me, alter me for a little while. I get extremely introspective. It's almost like defragmenting myself. I do a self-assessment. I explore all those negative sectors. It takes a while. When I'm done, I'm better for it, a little more organized, possessing a little better perspective. But to get to the better end, I fall apart, mentally, emotionally.
When I went to bed last night, I was still in this highly vulnerable state. And Dea, angel that she is, came in to check on me. She settled herself beside me, her arm over me, her head against my chest, and I broke down and cried at her for who knows how long, interrupted only by my profuse apologizing. I'm not even sure what I was crying about, if I was crying about anything specific, or if I was apologizing for crying or for something else entirely.
She ended up spending the night (all completely chaste). I woke to her, still wrapped up in my arms, still sleeping. And I felt so much better. And so much worse. And I wanted to weep all over again. For all that love and all that trust, no matter how equally matched we are in both for each other, I don't feel worthy of it. I don't think we idolize each other. I think we are both too aware of each other's faults to consider even thinking of each other as paragons. But she adores me in a way I cannot comprehend because I'm not exceptional in any way, not extremely talented, not extremely patient, not even extremely kind.
For all that I am older and stronger than she and the most responsible member of the household, I'm not very good at this life-thing. I blunder my way through it. I pretend at confidence. I fake joy. Even when I am closest to bliss, like this morning with her contentedly beside me, I ache with an inexplicable misery. And it sounds so emo, I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I know how to be happy. I am sure I have the potential to be, but I don't know how to access it. And maybe that's why I watch films that destroy me, because I'm looking for something I cannot find so it's better to take it all apart and sort through it one item at a time.
Friday, July 25, 2014
I Would Make a Perfect Oberon
This is also my formal request to be cast as Oberon in some production of Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
The Flower Crown
If I were Dea's boyfriend, I would be the best boyfriend ever. And while I am not her boyfriend, I am still the best something ever, I think (and she has since agreed with me, so it must be true).
Monday, Dea mentioned wanting a flower crown. I wasn't aware that such a thing was an everyday fashion accessory, but they are apparently, even outside of Renaissance fairs and Maypole dancing. I therefore went out, got all the supplies, and made one for her. Being my very first one, I am very pleased with how it turned out.
Dea loved it (but I couldn’t persuade her to let me take photos to share with others and that is her right). I didn’t look that bad today either, so I went ahead and modeled it myself. Voila!
You get to see one of my robes (gift from Phoebe). And, even more amazing, my hair doesn’t look like it’s an awful color here (but I’m still not happy with it, and once I can justify the expense and not hurt Sandy’s feelings, I’m going back to dark hair).
There are a lot more of me looking like some mockery of Dionysus, but one is more than enough at the moment. Maybe I’ll share the others at another time.
Monday, Dea mentioned wanting a flower crown. I wasn't aware that such a thing was an everyday fashion accessory, but they are apparently, even outside of Renaissance fairs and Maypole dancing. I therefore went out, got all the supplies, and made one for her. Being my very first one, I am very pleased with how it turned out.
Dea loved it (but I couldn’t persuade her to let me take photos to share with others and that is her right). I didn’t look that bad today either, so I went ahead and modeled it myself. Voila!
You get to see one of my robes (gift from Phoebe). And, even more amazing, my hair doesn’t look like it’s an awful color here (but I’m still not happy with it, and once I can justify the expense and not hurt Sandy’s feelings, I’m going back to dark hair).
There are a lot more of me looking like some mockery of Dionysus, but one is more than enough at the moment. Maybe I’ll share the others at another time.
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
How You Do It
I was checking out at the grocery store and this young guy I’d never seen before was scanning me out, nose and eyebrow piercings, mostly shaved head with a fauxhawk with pink-dyed tips, tattoos poking out from under the collar and cuffs of his shirt and huge plugs in his ears. He grinned when we made eye contact, snapped his fingers and pointed at me and said, “I like your mouth.”
I snapped my fingers back and pointed at him and said, “Thank you! I like yours too.”
I’m not sure that would work with everyone, but that’s how you do it with me. I think he may have thought that I was part of the body modification scene and inflicted my scars upon myself, but I don't care. I can’t remember the last time interacting with someone new was that easy.
I snapped my fingers back and pointed at him and said, “Thank you! I like yours too.”
I’m not sure that would work with everyone, but that’s how you do it with me. I think he may have thought that I was part of the body modification scene and inflicted my scars upon myself, but I don't care. I can’t remember the last time interacting with someone new was that easy.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Complicated Insecurities
anonymous said:
First of all, Anon, thank you.
Secondly, I am sorry I did not reply right away since I needed a time when I could sit down and answer this properly.
Thirdly, I am now going to answer this properly:
I have a lot of things going on in my offline life that I don’t talk about much online. I get frequent anxiety attacks. I have severe chronic depression. I have a history of eating disorders and even though I have more or less moved beyond those at least, I still have a very complicated and unhealthy relationship with the rest of my body (not just my face) and with eating in general. I have a number of physical conditions that cause a lot of concern and require strict and constant monitoring. And I don’t talk about this stuff because it makes me uncomfortable and because they are not things I can solve or overcome by talking about it online. These things are purely internal.
My scarring on the other hand is completely external. People see it. People respond to it. People treat me accordingly. I have internalized my experiences with it, but if no one could see it, it would never affect me. Maybe it too isn’t something that can be, as I said above, solved or overcome by talking about it online, but it can be addressed online in a way that better equips me when I deal with other people’s responses and reactions to it offline.
With that said, it may surprise you that I don’t think about the scarring that much unless I’m reminded of it. My scarring as a self-initiated thought? That pretty much happens only when I’m concerned for my safety, when I am getting ready to go out into the populace, or when I’m about to be introduced to someone new (or the random incidental like when I went out to the diner with Sandy). But that is pretty much all. At home, or out and busy doing errands, or at work, or anywhere with people I know and like, or at dad’s university, or even in one location for a good period of time, I forget completely. Yes, the scars pull. I feel them all the time, but it has become background noise at this point, until something reminds me.
Being reminded of it happens often, so it is often on my mind. Aesthetically, as you complimented me upon my appearance, the scars, on the whole of things, aren’t much, but some people fret over a zit, and some people fret over unevenly shaped eyebrows, and other people worry about their makeup and go out and buy special waterproof products just to keep it perfect, and other people want to make sure they don’t have chocolate at the corners of their mouths, or food in their teeth, and those are such small things and yet, they are still thought about, sometimes insecure about. And the scars, for whatever else they are, are noticeable, deliberate, and for many, more than a little disturbing. And it is not something I can simply avoid.
When I’m in the grocery store and parents pull their children noticeably out of my way and stare at me like I’m a plague-carrier? I notice. I know why they’ve done that. I think about the scarring. I get self-conscious and anxious and insecure. When unimaginative teens start calling me names and then kick me when I ignore them while I am trying to enjoy a concert in the park, I know why they’ve done it. They have already spent a good ten to twenty minutes telling me why they did it. I think about the scarring. I think about how much I would like to wear a bandanna like a bandit in a Western so that such things won’t happen again, but then I think about the times I have done so in the past and been stopped by the cops. I think about having to take my scarf down and being stared at by many more people who would otherwise not have bothered looking up. And even thinking about it now makes me shake and feel sick to my stomach in panic. When we have new temps at work and they meet me in-makeup and then catch up with me after my hours and their faces drain because they didn’t realize when the first met me that I was scarred, I notice. When I pass people on the sidewalk and they involuntarily touch their mouths, I notice. I remember why. I touch my own. And when other people touch it, for as rare as it is, usually Simona or Dea or some other family member, I remember and I feel guilty. I get even more insecure then and I want to hide, not because they don’t understand, but because they do, and I am grateful. I just want to give them better than I’ve got. So when I say that I am a huge mess of insecurities, I mean it, for many reasons, some more visible than others.
You say you have a lot of insecurities. Are they because of your scarring? They shouldn't be. You're very good looking.
First of all, Anon, thank you.
Secondly, I am sorry I did not reply right away since I needed a time when I could sit down and answer this properly.
Thirdly, I am now going to answer this properly:
I have a lot of things going on in my offline life that I don’t talk about much online. I get frequent anxiety attacks. I have severe chronic depression. I have a history of eating disorders and even though I have more or less moved beyond those at least, I still have a very complicated and unhealthy relationship with the rest of my body (not just my face) and with eating in general. I have a number of physical conditions that cause a lot of concern and require strict and constant monitoring. And I don’t talk about this stuff because it makes me uncomfortable and because they are not things I can solve or overcome by talking about it online. These things are purely internal.
My scarring on the other hand is completely external. People see it. People respond to it. People treat me accordingly. I have internalized my experiences with it, but if no one could see it, it would never affect me. Maybe it too isn’t something that can be, as I said above, solved or overcome by talking about it online, but it can be addressed online in a way that better equips me when I deal with other people’s responses and reactions to it offline.
With that said, it may surprise you that I don’t think about the scarring that much unless I’m reminded of it. My scarring as a self-initiated thought? That pretty much happens only when I’m concerned for my safety, when I am getting ready to go out into the populace, or when I’m about to be introduced to someone new (or the random incidental like when I went out to the diner with Sandy). But that is pretty much all. At home, or out and busy doing errands, or at work, or anywhere with people I know and like, or at dad’s university, or even in one location for a good period of time, I forget completely. Yes, the scars pull. I feel them all the time, but it has become background noise at this point, until something reminds me.
Being reminded of it happens often, so it is often on my mind. Aesthetically, as you complimented me upon my appearance, the scars, on the whole of things, aren’t much, but some people fret over a zit, and some people fret over unevenly shaped eyebrows, and other people worry about their makeup and go out and buy special waterproof products just to keep it perfect, and other people want to make sure they don’t have chocolate at the corners of their mouths, or food in their teeth, and those are such small things and yet, they are still thought about, sometimes insecure about. And the scars, for whatever else they are, are noticeable, deliberate, and for many, more than a little disturbing. And it is not something I can simply avoid.
When I’m in the grocery store and parents pull their children noticeably out of my way and stare at me like I’m a plague-carrier? I notice. I know why they’ve done that. I think about the scarring. I get self-conscious and anxious and insecure. When unimaginative teens start calling me names and then kick me when I ignore them while I am trying to enjoy a concert in the park, I know why they’ve done it. They have already spent a good ten to twenty minutes telling me why they did it. I think about the scarring. I think about how much I would like to wear a bandanna like a bandit in a Western so that such things won’t happen again, but then I think about the times I have done so in the past and been stopped by the cops. I think about having to take my scarf down and being stared at by many more people who would otherwise not have bothered looking up. And even thinking about it now makes me shake and feel sick to my stomach in panic. When we have new temps at work and they meet me in-makeup and then catch up with me after my hours and their faces drain because they didn’t realize when the first met me that I was scarred, I notice. When I pass people on the sidewalk and they involuntarily touch their mouths, I notice. I remember why. I touch my own. And when other people touch it, for as rare as it is, usually Simona or Dea or some other family member, I remember and I feel guilty. I get even more insecure then and I want to hide, not because they don’t understand, but because they do, and I am grateful. I just want to give them better than I’ve got. So when I say that I am a huge mess of insecurities, I mean it, for many reasons, some more visible than others.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Dea's Ex-Boyfriend Follow-Up
Dea's ex-boyfriend has called every hour on the hour today starting at 9 this morning leaving increasingly more insulting messages. With Dea’s full and free permission, this last time, I picked up, answered with “the freak here” since he apparently called me that (people really need to come up with something more creative, I’m so bored of the standard names), and then I apologized for not answering earlier since, I explained, with Dea’s new-found freedom from him, things just happened and we ended up having rough sex throughout the entire apartment building. There was dead silence on the other end and then he hung up.
Monday, July 7, 2014
Dea and Her Latest Boyfriend
Original situation, July 6:
Dea called me tonight asking me to pick her up. Apparently, this boyfriend is now her latest ex. Is it terrible of me and does it make me a horrible human being if I say that I am secretly delighted by this turn of events? I think it must but I cannot help how I feel. I have been supportive though, keeping my feelings to myself.
________
Follow up, July 7:
I heard the story today of why Dea broke up with her boyfriend and it was apparently over me (and I feel very guilty about being the cause, but I keep myself out of her relationships because she is entirely capable of making her own decisions and determining what’s important or not). From what I could gather, he did not like the fact that she and I are so close and live together, and she said that he used several choice names for me in the process which sealed the break-up for her.
This isn’t the first time. I am sure it will not be the last. But every time one of Dea’s boyfriends throws a tantrum about the fact that she lives with a man near her age who isn’t related, because “something might happen,” I have to laugh. She and I have been in the apartment this time, just the two of us, for a little more than three weeks and nothing has happened. Any prior times we have been in the apartment alone over the course of all the years? Nothing has ever happened. Even now, she’s sitting in the corner of the couch, her legs on me, toes flicking my elbow every so often, her headphones on, and she’s completely oblivious to anything else. Nothing will happen.
But, to be smug for a moment, any significant other of hers should feel envious, not of me, but of the relationship she and I have. That is not to say that I would ever interfere in her happiness, but I don’t think any other relationship could rival the depth of affection and strength of love she and I have for each other. The boyfriend that wins her over will be the one who accepts this and accepts me as part of the package.
Dea called me tonight asking me to pick her up. Apparently, this boyfriend is now her latest ex. Is it terrible of me and does it make me a horrible human being if I say that I am secretly delighted by this turn of events? I think it must but I cannot help how I feel. I have been supportive though, keeping my feelings to myself.
________
Follow up, July 7:
I heard the story today of why Dea broke up with her boyfriend and it was apparently over me (and I feel very guilty about being the cause, but I keep myself out of her relationships because she is entirely capable of making her own decisions and determining what’s important or not). From what I could gather, he did not like the fact that she and I are so close and live together, and she said that he used several choice names for me in the process which sealed the break-up for her.
This isn’t the first time. I am sure it will not be the last. But every time one of Dea’s boyfriends throws a tantrum about the fact that she lives with a man near her age who isn’t related, because “something might happen,” I have to laugh. She and I have been in the apartment this time, just the two of us, for a little more than three weeks and nothing has happened. Any prior times we have been in the apartment alone over the course of all the years? Nothing has ever happened. Even now, she’s sitting in the corner of the couch, her legs on me, toes flicking my elbow every so often, her headphones on, and she’s completely oblivious to anything else. Nothing will happen.
But, to be smug for a moment, any significant other of hers should feel envious, not of me, but of the relationship she and I have. That is not to say that I would ever interfere in her happiness, but I don’t think any other relationship could rival the depth of affection and strength of love she and I have for each other. The boyfriend that wins her over will be the one who accepts this and accepts me as part of the package.
Friday, July 4, 2014
The 4th
Work was rained out, again, today and rather than keep us for rehearsals or training, they just let us go since the weather is only due to get worse.
I am feeling more than a little melancholy since it seems like I spend every holiday alone. Dad’s off on his Burmese whirlwind adventure. Dea’s at her boyfriend’s family’s shindig. Phoebe is with her sister and nieces at her brother-in-law’s get-together. And here I am, at the apartment, not even the dog here for company.
And I know it is silly to feel this way since the 4th is not a holiday I have ever celebrated with enthusiasm. And eating barbecue, especially in front of strangers who would invariably be at any festivities, would get me so nervous that I really would embarrass myself. And it is not as if I have been purposely excluded from anything. And I have nothing else which would justify the inner restlessness and discontent.
Nonetheless, I am restless and discontent and feeling isolated.
I hope everyone else who celebrates on the 4th is having/ had a wonderful day.
I am feeling more than a little melancholy since it seems like I spend every holiday alone. Dad’s off on his Burmese whirlwind adventure. Dea’s at her boyfriend’s family’s shindig. Phoebe is with her sister and nieces at her brother-in-law’s get-together. And here I am, at the apartment, not even the dog here for company.
And I know it is silly to feel this way since the 4th is not a holiday I have ever celebrated with enthusiasm. And eating barbecue, especially in front of strangers who would invariably be at any festivities, would get me so nervous that I really would embarrass myself. And it is not as if I have been purposely excluded from anything. And I have nothing else which would justify the inner restlessness and discontent.
Nonetheless, I am restless and discontent and feeling isolated.
I hope everyone else who celebrates on the 4th is having/ had a wonderful day.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Yesterday with Dea
After five days of killing myself at work (I think it came out to over 70 hours at the main job, and over ten more tutoring and balancing bank statements for my others), by Sunday evening I was physically dead and mentally exhausted. I therefore resolved that, yesterday, Monday, I should do naught but spend the day abed and sleep. It didn't quite work out that way, but it turned out even better than anticipated.
I woke early like usual, but still tiredly peevish, I opened the laptop beside the bed, put on the Russian musical of The Man Who Laughs, "Человек который смеется," since I didn't care if I fell asleep again in the middle of it, and wrapped myself around my second pillow. I must have been successful in falling asleep again because the next thing of which I became aware was the pillow being pried out of my arms. It was soon after replaced with the warm snugly body of my darling.
I was still a bit hazy, too hazy for any real conversation, and she was content with that. Her hair smelled of cucumber and was still a little wet from her shower and the damp ends plastered themselves against my neck and chest. We ended up napping together for another two hours, her head on my shoulder and tucked up under my chin. I woke again when she kissed me, first on the chin and then she pushed herself up on her elbow to kiss me on the mouth. She said nothing at first, played with my hair, then asked me, if I had no other plans, would I spend the day with her.
Such suggestions are the things for which I exist. We thus proceeded to spend the day in such pleasant occupation as to make my heart flutter for the next week. She decided against taking Philandros since I would be with her, and after I took him for a quick walk around the apartment complex, she and I set off to the park. Originally, we just thought we would walk around and catch up with each other but the adjacent playground was empty, so we amused ourselves there for a little while. I pushed her on a swing and we climbed to the tallest spiral slide and went down together, Dea settled between my legs and wrapped in my arms. When the families started coming, we abandoned it and went for lunch instead. Nothing fancy, just sandwiches. Afterward, we went back home and cuddled on the couch. I read some of Jasper Fforde's The Well of Lost Plots to her and then we put in some movies that we didn't pay attention to, and talked over them, and I fell asleep again. (I said I was tired!)
When we were out getting sandwiches though, I got a few looks like usual, but I don't know if someone had said something or what might have been the cause, but the young girl who checked us out, her eyes blazed with the fire of defiance as she said very loudly to the entire establishment, "You two are the cutest couple ever!"
Now, Dea and I are very hands-on with each other, above and beyond necessity even for her needs. Being in physical contact with her whenever possible is pretty much a compulsion on my end and a habit on hers. Even when her boyfriends are around, it's very difficult for us to keep our hands off each other. It's just what we do and how it has always been. And when we were waiting for our sandwiches, Dea had her back pressed to my chest, my arms were wrapped around her waist, and we were teasing each other about frivolous things, so of course, it would be natural for someone to think we were dating. But the moment the girl said it, I felt my cheeks burn up and I almost corrected the girl, but Dea, her face breaking out into a huge smile (even her dimple showing), said, "Thank you. I am very lucky to have him."
I know she loves me and I know she cares about me. But that simple public statement, the fact that she feels fortunate for having me in her life and to say it to others.... It makes me feel so grateful.
I woke early like usual, but still tiredly peevish, I opened the laptop beside the bed, put on the Russian musical of The Man Who Laughs, "Человек который смеется," since I didn't care if I fell asleep again in the middle of it, and wrapped myself around my second pillow. I must have been successful in falling asleep again because the next thing of which I became aware was the pillow being pried out of my arms. It was soon after replaced with the warm snugly body of my darling.
I was still a bit hazy, too hazy for any real conversation, and she was content with that. Her hair smelled of cucumber and was still a little wet from her shower and the damp ends plastered themselves against my neck and chest. We ended up napping together for another two hours, her head on my shoulder and tucked up under my chin. I woke again when she kissed me, first on the chin and then she pushed herself up on her elbow to kiss me on the mouth. She said nothing at first, played with my hair, then asked me, if I had no other plans, would I spend the day with her.
Such suggestions are the things for which I exist. We thus proceeded to spend the day in such pleasant occupation as to make my heart flutter for the next week. She decided against taking Philandros since I would be with her, and after I took him for a quick walk around the apartment complex, she and I set off to the park. Originally, we just thought we would walk around and catch up with each other but the adjacent playground was empty, so we amused ourselves there for a little while. I pushed her on a swing and we climbed to the tallest spiral slide and went down together, Dea settled between my legs and wrapped in my arms. When the families started coming, we abandoned it and went for lunch instead. Nothing fancy, just sandwiches. Afterward, we went back home and cuddled on the couch. I read some of Jasper Fforde's The Well of Lost Plots to her and then we put in some movies that we didn't pay attention to, and talked over them, and I fell asleep again. (I said I was tired!)
When we were out getting sandwiches though, I got a few looks like usual, but I don't know if someone had said something or what might have been the cause, but the young girl who checked us out, her eyes blazed with the fire of defiance as she said very loudly to the entire establishment, "You two are the cutest couple ever!"
Now, Dea and I are very hands-on with each other, above and beyond necessity even for her needs. Being in physical contact with her whenever possible is pretty much a compulsion on my end and a habit on hers. Even when her boyfriends are around, it's very difficult for us to keep our hands off each other. It's just what we do and how it has always been. And when we were waiting for our sandwiches, Dea had her back pressed to my chest, my arms were wrapped around her waist, and we were teasing each other about frivolous things, so of course, it would be natural for someone to think we were dating. But the moment the girl said it, I felt my cheeks burn up and I almost corrected the girl, but Dea, her face breaking out into a huge smile (even her dimple showing), said, "Thank you. I am very lucky to have him."
I know she loves me and I know she cares about me. But that simple public statement, the fact that she feels fortunate for having me in her life and to say it to others.... It makes me feel so grateful.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
A Few Inarticulate Thoughts on the 2012 L'Homme Qui Rit
anonymous said:
I know you sent me this question last week, anon, and I apologize for not answering sooner. I have a lot to say and yet no words have been readily available, but I figured that I had dallied long enough. When I have a better and more eloquent answer, I will be certain to let you know.
I’m assuming you mean the 2012 film? (There have been many stage productions in recent years including the Russian musical so if you meant one of those, I’m sorry that I misunderstood. And, if you did mean the Russian musical, let’s talk off anon because I don’t know anyone who has seen it yet.) And I reblog things about the 2012 movie, but I know I don’t talk about it quite as much as I could or perhaps should.
It’s not because I don’t appreciate it. I do. I have seen it quite a few times, a great deal more times than anyone knows about. I treat it a bit like contraband, relegating my watching habits to when I have the apartment alone because it sets me off for days, to the point that, for well over the past year when I have been moody or unusually melancholy, the first question is always “what’s wrong?” followed immediately by, “you didn’t watch l’homme qui rit again, did you?”
The first time I saw it was with my love. She knew that I had been waiting for it to come out and she’s the one who studies French in this household, so it made sense to experience it together. We cuddled on the couch as it played. She had tears in her eyes by the end. Meanwhile I had spent the whole movie silently weeping into her hair. Not my finest few hours.
I could write a great deal about how I feel about it, and maybe I will eventually when I am capable of processing it without being so profoundly affected. While it is not the most book-accurate, it is the most vicious version, not due to the tragedy of the story set as a fairy tale but in the small incidental ways that are more than rooted in reality. When he spills the wine on himself while drinking for example, it is not secondhand embarrassment or even the resulting laughter from those attending his fête that makes me lose it (yet again). Some people carry pens or breath mints or band aids wherever they go; I carry straws with me because I will spill otherwise. And no other version illustrates these daily realities and difficulties or offers this brief and brutal exposure of insecurities quite like this version. There’s a real and terrifying humanity at play. And it’s painful. And it’s beautiful. And it’s cruel.
How do you feel about the newest l'homme qui rit?
I know you sent me this question last week, anon, and I apologize for not answering sooner. I have a lot to say and yet no words have been readily available, but I figured that I had dallied long enough. When I have a better and more eloquent answer, I will be certain to let you know.
I’m assuming you mean the 2012 film? (There have been many stage productions in recent years including the Russian musical so if you meant one of those, I’m sorry that I misunderstood. And, if you did mean the Russian musical, let’s talk off anon because I don’t know anyone who has seen it yet.) And I reblog things about the 2012 movie, but I know I don’t talk about it quite as much as I could or perhaps should.
It’s not because I don’t appreciate it. I do. I have seen it quite a few times, a great deal more times than anyone knows about. I treat it a bit like contraband, relegating my watching habits to when I have the apartment alone because it sets me off for days, to the point that, for well over the past year when I have been moody or unusually melancholy, the first question is always “what’s wrong?” followed immediately by, “you didn’t watch l’homme qui rit again, did you?”
The first time I saw it was with my love. She knew that I had been waiting for it to come out and she’s the one who studies French in this household, so it made sense to experience it together. We cuddled on the couch as it played. She had tears in her eyes by the end. Meanwhile I had spent the whole movie silently weeping into her hair. Not my finest few hours.
I could write a great deal about how I feel about it, and maybe I will eventually when I am capable of processing it without being so profoundly affected. While it is not the most book-accurate, it is the most vicious version, not due to the tragedy of the story set as a fairy tale but in the small incidental ways that are more than rooted in reality. When he spills the wine on himself while drinking for example, it is not secondhand embarrassment or even the resulting laughter from those attending his fête that makes me lose it (yet again). Some people carry pens or breath mints or band aids wherever they go; I carry straws with me because I will spill otherwise. And no other version illustrates these daily realities and difficulties or offers this brief and brutal exposure of insecurities quite like this version. There’s a real and terrifying humanity at play. And it’s painful. And it’s beautiful. And it’s cruel.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
The Perils of Going Solo
There was a concert tonight at a park not far from where I live. I made plans with a coworker (Amra, if you’re following along with my coworkers) to go. I got there on time, waited at the designated location. Fifteen minutes go by. Thirty minutes go by. I called her up, can’t get a hold of her. Hour later, I get a text that she couldn’t find a parking spot and decided to turn around. “Forgot” to tell me sooner.
Now, that doesn’t really bother me so much. I get stood up (and I mean that in the most platonic way possible) quite a bit which, although not ideal, has helped me be a little more spontaneous when other opportunities present themselves. I am also a capable adult who can attend a concert on his own, which I did, settling myself under a tree not far from the bandstand.
What bothered me was that there were very many people, and while I am a capable adult who goes about his daily life like anyone else, that many people scare the shit out of me. In truth, what are they going to do to me? Nothing. I know that. But my self-consciousness skyrockets. And with someone else, I am able to keep myself focused on my company and my purpose. I never make plans to attend such a large event on my own because I know this about myself.
I also get treated better in company. With someone else, people tend to refrain from approaching me or saying anything to me. When alone however, the bad behaviors come out en force. I got the dirtiest looks from some aged woman sitting in a rusty lawn chair not far from me who felt the need to pull everyone in her party into a group huddle and when they broke, they stuck their heads up like meerkats and just STARED at me. I waved at them and that sent them back to their regularly scheduled programming. A group of teen-aged boys walked by me and shouted to me that I was a “sick fuck” among a couple other choice descriptors and towards the end of the concert, one of them actually kicked me in the back (while I was sitting beneath the tree) and then they ran off laughing.
It’s been a while since I’ve been physically attacked, but it does happen. I’m an easy target too since I look wiry, spry, and youthful, not big, beefy, or imposing, although I probably have almost two hundred pounds of muscle and ten years on them. Fortunately nothing more than my meager pride was wounded, not that there would have been much recourse anyway should it have been otherwise. But here, illustrated, is precisely why I try to keep company whenever I can. I think I’m having a few glasses of wine tonight.
Now, that doesn’t really bother me so much. I get stood up (and I mean that in the most platonic way possible) quite a bit which, although not ideal, has helped me be a little more spontaneous when other opportunities present themselves. I am also a capable adult who can attend a concert on his own, which I did, settling myself under a tree not far from the bandstand.
What bothered me was that there were very many people, and while I am a capable adult who goes about his daily life like anyone else, that many people scare the shit out of me. In truth, what are they going to do to me? Nothing. I know that. But my self-consciousness skyrockets. And with someone else, I am able to keep myself focused on my company and my purpose. I never make plans to attend such a large event on my own because I know this about myself.
I also get treated better in company. With someone else, people tend to refrain from approaching me or saying anything to me. When alone however, the bad behaviors come out en force. I got the dirtiest looks from some aged woman sitting in a rusty lawn chair not far from me who felt the need to pull everyone in her party into a group huddle and when they broke, they stuck their heads up like meerkats and just STARED at me. I waved at them and that sent them back to their regularly scheduled programming. A group of teen-aged boys walked by me and shouted to me that I was a “sick fuck” among a couple other choice descriptors and towards the end of the concert, one of them actually kicked me in the back (while I was sitting beneath the tree) and then they ran off laughing.
It’s been a while since I’ve been physically attacked, but it does happen. I’m an easy target too since I look wiry, spry, and youthful, not big, beefy, or imposing, although I probably have almost two hundred pounds of muscle and ten years on them. Fortunately nothing more than my meager pride was wounded, not that there would have been much recourse anyway should it have been otherwise. But here, illustrated, is precisely why I try to keep company whenever I can. I think I’m having a few glasses of wine tonight.
Had My Hair Done, Eep
Sandy works part time at a salon nearby and she’s been insisting on doing my hair for a very long time (apparently a guy with long hair is a rare treat for her?). Now that the black has faded to some really horrid mud-colored thing, she volunteered to fix it.
She, um, fixed it this morning. She did a lot of other things in the process. My hair is much lighter brown. Much. And copper. I have no idea how I feel about it. It’s definitely different. Different is good, right? Right?
Pics will come, probably this afternoon. Then you can judge for yourselves.
----the afternoon happened, then came my follow-up----
So here’s the new color(s). Sandy straightened my hair too, so I have no idea what to do with it (at least it isn’t a Mrs. Brady flip though). If I didn’t have somewhere to go, I’d go rewash it in the hope that it would bring back the natural wave. It is currently back in a ponytail but that makes me look like I’m twelve. I need a cut very badly too. It’s at That Stage. (It’s a nasty pic too, but it’s not like you haven’t gotten tons of those before)
Monday, June 23, 2014
Seeing Pheeb's Family
Phoebe’s car was in the shop today so I drove her to go see her sister and brother-in-law (but really, we all know it was for her nieces, shhhh). The sister and brother-in-law know me from the few years that I lived with Orson and Phoebe while they were married, but now that they’re divorced, I don’t get to see the rest of Phoebe’s family that often. It makes me a little sad since they have the kids now, but it’s a treat when I get to see them. And the girls are smart and sweet: Colette who is seven and Simona who is five.
Simona apparently has a little crush on me too which is really cute to watch. She had to sit next to me the whole time and she told me all about school and her friends and the play they saw. She told me about her favorite foods and the movie they watched in class and then she sang me her favorite song although she got too embarrassed to do the accompanying dance.
When Pheebs and I were leaving, I knelt down to give the girls hugs. Simona launched herself into my arms, kissed both scars (to make them feel better, she explained when I asked her what the French kiss-on-each-cheek was for, but she said it looking at me with an indulgence one might bestow upon an especially dim-witted puppy) and then declared that she was going to marry me when she grew up.
Of course I smiled and told her I was too old for her but I think that’s one of the sweetest compliments a child can bestow even if they forget it five minutes later. Their concept of the institution is so innocent and naive that it doesn’t mean marriage. It says that they feel safe with you, that they think you’re fun to be with, that they like talking to you and spending time with you, and that they want to be as special to you as you are to them, and they call it marriage because they don’t have the capacity to explain all the nuances of why. It’s incredibly sweet.
Simona apparently has a little crush on me too which is really cute to watch. She had to sit next to me the whole time and she told me all about school and her friends and the play they saw. She told me about her favorite foods and the movie they watched in class and then she sang me her favorite song although she got too embarrassed to do the accompanying dance.
When Pheebs and I were leaving, I knelt down to give the girls hugs. Simona launched herself into my arms, kissed both scars (to make them feel better, she explained when I asked her what the French kiss-on-each-cheek was for, but she said it looking at me with an indulgence one might bestow upon an especially dim-witted puppy) and then declared that she was going to marry me when she grew up.
Of course I smiled and told her I was too old for her but I think that’s one of the sweetest compliments a child can bestow even if they forget it five minutes later. Their concept of the institution is so innocent and naive that it doesn’t mean marriage. It says that they feel safe with you, that they think you’re fun to be with, that they like talking to you and spending time with you, and that they want to be as special to you as you are to them, and they call it marriage because they don’t have the capacity to explain all the nuances of why. It’s incredibly sweet.
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Being Underestimated
I have much longer thoughts on this matter, but people constantly do it to me and here's a quick bit of advice:
Don’t underestimate me. I am not shy or timid or passive. I am quiet. And quiet people quietly rule the world.
Don’t underestimate me. I am not shy or timid or passive. I am quiet. And quiet people quietly rule the world.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Frequently Asked Questions
I was getting a lot of questions on my Tumblr account ( the-guy-who-laughs, if you are interested) so I wrote up a FAQ for it. Then it occurred to me that I should probably put one over here. This one has been adapted for the journal (rather than the Tumblr) although the subjects are more or less the same. Many of these questions have been posed to me over the course of my (limited) time on the internet.
Q: Your name is listed as Colin Gwynplaine. Is that your real name?
A: Colin is my legal first name. I have been using Gwynplaine as my middle name for many years. It is also my official moniker at work, on my work ID and everything. I use it in place of a last name online since I cannot think of any reason anyone online might need my surname.
Q: What gender are you and what pronouns do you use?
A: I am male and I use male pronouns, thank you for asking.
Q: How old are you?
A: All my legal documents say I’m 28, so let’s go with that.
Q: You look much younger.
A: I know! Isn’t it great? When I’m forty, people are still going to ask me what grade I’m in. By the way, that wasn’t a question.
Q: What do you do for work?
A: My main job is one I do not talk about much. I love my coworkers and we frequently have a lot of fun, but I really hate what I do and I am, in no small way, embarrassed about it, but I must pay the bills somehow. I also tutor in a variety of subjects. And I have my MBA, so I have recently taken on work as a freelance bookkeeper while I look for a job in my field. Right now, I'm also a dance instructor at a local studio.
Q: I have seen the selfies you post. Are they of you?
A: Yes, they are.
Q: Why do you post so many pictures of yourself?
A: Because I’m a total narcissist, and because I’m knock-out drop-dead sexy of course.
Q: No, really, why did you post them?
A: Oh, very well. The truth then. I find it very difficult to look at myself. I dislike being looked at too, which, as you can guess, makes things like, oh… existing for example, unnecessarily stressful. I put on a good show of confidence most of the time, but my core is nothing but anxieties, insecurities, and extreme self-consciousness. The entire point of coming online was to force myself to be more open, to have to look at myself, to learn not to be terrified of a camera, and to get comfortable with the idea of people looking at me…without actively having to be looked at, an idea which is surprisingly liberating. I did the exercise most begrudgingly at first, but between getting into the habit of doing it and the overwhelming support and encouragement of the sweet people I have met online, it has helped significantly.
Q: Are those scars?
A: Yes, they are.
Q: What interests do you have and what fandoms do you belong to?
A: Many. Most notable is L’homme qui rit/The Man Who Laughs (in any incarnation) because it is significant to me and needs extra love since it’s a very small fandom. Other specific fandoms of mine include The Little Prince, The Phantom of the Opera, Beauty and the Beast, Howl’s Moving Castle, Pushing Daisies, and Singing in the Rain. More general media interests include Victorian literature and movies based upon it, silent films, film noir, French films, Vincent Price/ Peter Cushing/ Basil Rathbone/ Christopher Lee films, and over-acted anachronistically-costumed quasi-period films (bonus points if it has Ray Harryhausen animation in it). Other than that, I like sunshowers, thunderstorms, foggy days, books, handmade scarves, the feeling of silt between my toes, the smell of coffee, ballroom dancing, financial security, and long walks on the beach.
Q: Is The Man Who Laughs/ L’homme qui rit your favorite story?
A: That’s a hard question to answer. Let’s say that The Man Who Laughs/ L’homme qui rit has roots more firmly embedded in my identity than any other. To quote Wuthering Heights, “my love for [other stories] is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for [L’homme qui rit] resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.”
Q: Your scarring and love of L’homme qui rit… coincidence much?
A: Less coincidence and more intentional analogy. I have chosen to embrace a story that resonates profoundly and makes me that much stronger. When I became enamored of it at twelve, it was precisely because I could relate. At last, there was a disfigured man not cast as the villain but as a vulnerable and gentle human being whose personal strength overcomes all those terrible insecurities when it matters. That’s powerful. And I like to fancy that, could I meet Gwynplaine, we’d be best buds and have a secret handshake.
Q: You often refer to Dea. Is that her name? Is she your girlfriend?
A: It is her name, only not legally… yet. She’s often discussed getting it changed because no one calls her anything else except maybe her doctors and school administration. Yes, that was my doing. I regret nothing. And no, she is not my girlfriend. She has a boyfriend, but all boyfriends are called Charmin because she goes through them like rolls of toilet paper in a household of ten. I, on the other hand, am consistently unattached.
Q: Will we see pictures of you two together?
A: Probably not although there are a couple I would love to share because they’re silly and we look happy and those are the ones that please me most. But I would never put up pictures of anyone without their consent and I am a coward and haven’t told her about my online escapades because last year when Orson suggested doing this and I considered it, she became very upset by it.
Q: Is it okay to ask you a question even if it may seem indiscreet?
A: If it’s intentionally rude/ anon hate, you can guarantee that I will cut you down and sass you out. If it’s just a matter of not knowing how to phrase your inquiries, go ahead. I don’t believe in judging people who are trying to learn. That being said, I am still a fairly private person and may respectfully decline to answer, at least until I know you better, or request that we take the discussion elsewhere.
Q: Does that still mean I can ask you about your scars?
A: That depends. Are you going to give me the benefit of asking me off-anon or sending me an email so that I can talk to you as one person to another? If so, feel free. Or did you think you would hide behind a generic anonymous icon and ask me things you wouldn't have the nerve to do in person? Because if that's the case, no, you cannot. All anonymous inquiries about my scars will be treated in accordance with my mood that day, which means you will receive: sarcasm, comment deletion, or a link to my latest outburst of frustration. You will not receive an answer or a notification that I have deleted your question.
Q: Cake or Death?
A: Death, please. Oh! No! Cake! Cake! Sorry. I meant cake.
Do you have a question I didn’t answer? Send me an email at colin.gwynplaine@gmail.com.
Q: Your name is listed as Colin Gwynplaine. Is that your real name?
A: Colin is my legal first name. I have been using Gwynplaine as my middle name for many years. It is also my official moniker at work, on my work ID and everything. I use it in place of a last name online since I cannot think of any reason anyone online might need my surname.
Q: What gender are you and what pronouns do you use?
A: I am male and I use male pronouns, thank you for asking.
Q: How old are you?
A: All my legal documents say I’m 28, so let’s go with that.
Q: You look much younger.
A: I know! Isn’t it great? When I’m forty, people are still going to ask me what grade I’m in. By the way, that wasn’t a question.
Q: What do you do for work?
A: My main job is one I do not talk about much. I love my coworkers and we frequently have a lot of fun, but I really hate what I do and I am, in no small way, embarrassed about it, but I must pay the bills somehow. I also tutor in a variety of subjects. And I have my MBA, so I have recently taken on work as a freelance bookkeeper while I look for a job in my field. Right now, I'm also a dance instructor at a local studio.
Q: I have seen the selfies you post. Are they of you?
A: Yes, they are.
Q: Why do you post so many pictures of yourself?
A: Because I’m a total narcissist, and because I’m knock-out drop-dead sexy of course.
Q: No, really, why did you post them?
A: Oh, very well. The truth then. I find it very difficult to look at myself. I dislike being looked at too, which, as you can guess, makes things like, oh… existing for example, unnecessarily stressful. I put on a good show of confidence most of the time, but my core is nothing but anxieties, insecurities, and extreme self-consciousness. The entire point of coming online was to force myself to be more open, to have to look at myself, to learn not to be terrified of a camera, and to get comfortable with the idea of people looking at me…without actively having to be looked at, an idea which is surprisingly liberating. I did the exercise most begrudgingly at first, but between getting into the habit of doing it and the overwhelming support and encouragement of the sweet people I have met online, it has helped significantly.
Q: Are those scars?
A: Yes, they are.
Q: What interests do you have and what fandoms do you belong to?
A: Many. Most notable is L’homme qui rit/The Man Who Laughs (in any incarnation) because it is significant to me and needs extra love since it’s a very small fandom. Other specific fandoms of mine include The Little Prince, The Phantom of the Opera, Beauty and the Beast, Howl’s Moving Castle, Pushing Daisies, and Singing in the Rain. More general media interests include Victorian literature and movies based upon it, silent films, film noir, French films, Vincent Price/ Peter Cushing/ Basil Rathbone/ Christopher Lee films, and over-acted anachronistically-costumed quasi-period films (bonus points if it has Ray Harryhausen animation in it). Other than that, I like sunshowers, thunderstorms, foggy days, books, handmade scarves, the feeling of silt between my toes, the smell of coffee, ballroom dancing, financial security, and long walks on the beach.
Q: Is The Man Who Laughs/ L’homme qui rit your favorite story?
A: That’s a hard question to answer. Let’s say that The Man Who Laughs/ L’homme qui rit has roots more firmly embedded in my identity than any other. To quote Wuthering Heights, “my love for [other stories] is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for [L’homme qui rit] resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.”
Q: Your scarring and love of L’homme qui rit… coincidence much?
A: Less coincidence and more intentional analogy. I have chosen to embrace a story that resonates profoundly and makes me that much stronger. When I became enamored of it at twelve, it was precisely because I could relate. At last, there was a disfigured man not cast as the villain but as a vulnerable and gentle human being whose personal strength overcomes all those terrible insecurities when it matters. That’s powerful. And I like to fancy that, could I meet Gwynplaine, we’d be best buds and have a secret handshake.
Q: You often refer to Dea. Is that her name? Is she your girlfriend?
A: It is her name, only not legally… yet. She’s often discussed getting it changed because no one calls her anything else except maybe her doctors and school administration. Yes, that was my doing. I regret nothing. And no, she is not my girlfriend. She has a boyfriend, but all boyfriends are called Charmin because she goes through them like rolls of toilet paper in a household of ten. I, on the other hand, am consistently unattached.
Q: Will we see pictures of you two together?
A: Probably not although there are a couple I would love to share because they’re silly and we look happy and those are the ones that please me most. But I would never put up pictures of anyone without their consent and I am a coward and haven’t told her about my online escapades because last year when Orson suggested doing this and I considered it, she became very upset by it.
Q: Is it okay to ask you a question even if it may seem indiscreet?
A: If it’s intentionally rude/ anon hate, you can guarantee that I will cut you down and sass you out. If it’s just a matter of not knowing how to phrase your inquiries, go ahead. I don’t believe in judging people who are trying to learn. That being said, I am still a fairly private person and may respectfully decline to answer, at least until I know you better, or request that we take the discussion elsewhere.
Q: Does that still mean I can ask you about your scars?
A: That depends. Are you going to give me the benefit of asking me off-anon or sending me an email so that I can talk to you as one person to another? If so, feel free. Or did you think you would hide behind a generic anonymous icon and ask me things you wouldn't have the nerve to do in person? Because if that's the case, no, you cannot. All anonymous inquiries about my scars will be treated in accordance with my mood that day, which means you will receive: sarcasm, comment deletion, or a link to my latest outburst of frustration. You will not receive an answer or a notification that I have deleted your question.
Q: Cake or Death?
A: Death, please. Oh! No! Cake! Cake! Sorry. I meant cake.
Do you have a question I didn’t answer? Send me an email at colin.gwynplaine@gmail.com.
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Twinsies?
So I tossed on a bandanna and took this for Sandy instead. I didn't realize it before, but it's kind of freaky now that it's been pointed out. It's definitely the eyebrows... and the soulful gaze. Rawrrrr.
Sunday, June 1, 2014
All Backbone and No Apologies
anonymous asked:
This is a question I get on occasion from people I meet or interact with in person, one of those things that gets asked after someone has spoken to me for more than half of an hour, but not much more. Because, at its surface, it seems like a really solicitous and admirable thing to ask, and by asking, it is implied that I embody the qualities of courage and bravery, both which are generally considered good and noble things to be. And for those people who would think I have them, I will be gracious and take the compliment. So, Anon, thank you.
At the center of the question, however, is also the implication that I have something I need to be courageous and brave about. And of course, when I say that to anyone who asks that question, they immediately respond, “but your scars…!” And yes, my scars indeed. They are completely unacceptable in society, hence the need for bravery and courage to go out in society at all, correct? And yet, should I be called brave and courageous for just doing what I should be able to do without remark? Perhaps instead, it is the unspoken rules that make me unacceptable to society that should be called out instead of my so-called courage and bravery.
Because, I will tell you the truth: I am not brave and I am not courageous. I am a terrible little coward who just tries to live his life as best he can if only because there is nothing else to be done. I hide my face behind a scarf in winter. I keep my hair on the longer side so that I can somewhat hide behind it the rest of the year. I like high-collared coats and jackets. I find unoccupied corners in public places, keep my face down when I don’t have to interact with anyone, and strategically hide my mouth with my hands while looking studious and deeply contemplative. On the bus to work, I always try to get a window seat so that I can pretend to be looking out when other people board. When I wash my hands in the bathroom, I won’t even look up into the mirror because I know what I’ll see looking back at me. I know I’m a cowardly little shit and I find reasons not to stray beyond the people and places with whom and where I am already familiar. But there are two reasons why I might appear to exhibit the fine qualities of courage and bravery that you think I do: necessity and fatigue.
Necessity is cruel. You know how you said that I ”go about living [my] life just like anyone else?” You know why that is? It’s because I don’t have a choice about it. I have to contribute to the household. I have to eat. I have a car I need to pay off. I have to have insurance for it. I need gas for the car. I need the bus pass for work since I don’t want to put too many miles on the car. I need the train pass if I want to continue my job interviews in The City. I need a little recreational time. And I need a way to pay for it all. So I work. So I go grocery shopping. So I take the bus and the train. So I walk places. So I go to the post office. So I go to the park. So I take Philandros for walks and play fetch with him. So I, surprise, live my life pretty ordinarily. I don’t have the luxury of being a shut-in, recluse, or agoraphobe. I leave the apartment and go out among humankind because I have to.
Fatigue is another of those annoying reasons why I don’t just hide myself away completely. Do you know how tiring it is feeling like I need to be ashamed and hide myself all the time? Let me assure you, it is damn tiring, not to mention demoralizing. I get tired of being treated poorly or just plain dismissed, of feeling guilty if my face makes someone else uncomfortable, or of being made to feel like I’m repulsive. It’s a constant effort of will not to get down on myself when I’m terrified people will look at me and, the horror, see. And while the discourtesy of others often gets me angry, I am not an angry person by nature and it quickly translates into weary resignation. Being treated like a plague victim is par for the course and it gets old. And because of it, some days I just wake up and think, “fuck that.” And I go out and do normal ordinary things and think, if someone doesn’t like it, sucks to be them. But those days aren’t frequent enough.
Of course, the real irony is that I know all of this quite clearly about myself, the cowardice, the insecurity, the extreme self-consciousness, and yet I am widely told that I am (not necessarily brave or courageous but) one of the most confident people [the people telling me this] have ever met, “all backbone and no apologies.” Admittedly, the confidence is so much more “fake it ‘til you make it” than real personal strength even if I do call people out on their bullshit when I have the opportunity, but I will agree that I have no apologies. Why should I when I should be able to, as you say, “go about living [my] life just like anyone else” without being called brave or courageous for doing so?
I've been catching your posts on and off (your posts, not reblogs and stuff although those are great too) and it seems like you go about living your life just like anyone else which is a good thing (right?). Where do you get your courage? Where does that bravery come from?
This is a question I get on occasion from people I meet or interact with in person, one of those things that gets asked after someone has spoken to me for more than half of an hour, but not much more. Because, at its surface, it seems like a really solicitous and admirable thing to ask, and by asking, it is implied that I embody the qualities of courage and bravery, both which are generally considered good and noble things to be. And for those people who would think I have them, I will be gracious and take the compliment. So, Anon, thank you.
At the center of the question, however, is also the implication that I have something I need to be courageous and brave about. And of course, when I say that to anyone who asks that question, they immediately respond, “but your scars…!” And yes, my scars indeed. They are completely unacceptable in society, hence the need for bravery and courage to go out in society at all, correct? And yet, should I be called brave and courageous for just doing what I should be able to do without remark? Perhaps instead, it is the unspoken rules that make me unacceptable to society that should be called out instead of my so-called courage and bravery.
Because, I will tell you the truth: I am not brave and I am not courageous. I am a terrible little coward who just tries to live his life as best he can if only because there is nothing else to be done. I hide my face behind a scarf in winter. I keep my hair on the longer side so that I can somewhat hide behind it the rest of the year. I like high-collared coats and jackets. I find unoccupied corners in public places, keep my face down when I don’t have to interact with anyone, and strategically hide my mouth with my hands while looking studious and deeply contemplative. On the bus to work, I always try to get a window seat so that I can pretend to be looking out when other people board. When I wash my hands in the bathroom, I won’t even look up into the mirror because I know what I’ll see looking back at me. I know I’m a cowardly little shit and I find reasons not to stray beyond the people and places with whom and where I am already familiar. But there are two reasons why I might appear to exhibit the fine qualities of courage and bravery that you think I do: necessity and fatigue.
Necessity is cruel. You know how you said that I ”go about living [my] life just like anyone else?” You know why that is? It’s because I don’t have a choice about it. I have to contribute to the household. I have to eat. I have a car I need to pay off. I have to have insurance for it. I need gas for the car. I need the bus pass for work since I don’t want to put too many miles on the car. I need the train pass if I want to continue my job interviews in The City. I need a little recreational time. And I need a way to pay for it all. So I work. So I go grocery shopping. So I take the bus and the train. So I walk places. So I go to the post office. So I go to the park. So I take Philandros for walks and play fetch with him. So I, surprise, live my life pretty ordinarily. I don’t have the luxury of being a shut-in, recluse, or agoraphobe. I leave the apartment and go out among humankind because I have to.
Fatigue is another of those annoying reasons why I don’t just hide myself away completely. Do you know how tiring it is feeling like I need to be ashamed and hide myself all the time? Let me assure you, it is damn tiring, not to mention demoralizing. I get tired of being treated poorly or just plain dismissed, of feeling guilty if my face makes someone else uncomfortable, or of being made to feel like I’m repulsive. It’s a constant effort of will not to get down on myself when I’m terrified people will look at me and, the horror, see. And while the discourtesy of others often gets me angry, I am not an angry person by nature and it quickly translates into weary resignation. Being treated like a plague victim is par for the course and it gets old. And because of it, some days I just wake up and think, “fuck that.” And I go out and do normal ordinary things and think, if someone doesn’t like it, sucks to be them. But those days aren’t frequent enough.
Of course, the real irony is that I know all of this quite clearly about myself, the cowardice, the insecurity, the extreme self-consciousness, and yet I am widely told that I am (not necessarily brave or courageous but) one of the most confident people [the people telling me this] have ever met, “all backbone and no apologies.” Admittedly, the confidence is so much more “fake it ‘til you make it” than real personal strength even if I do call people out on their bullshit when I have the opportunity, but I will agree that I have no apologies. Why should I when I should be able to, as you say, “go about living [my] life just like anyone else” without being called brave or courageous for doing so?
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
How to Avoid Looking Like a "Horrible Person" When You Meet Me (or anyone else with a facial difference)
anonymous asked:
It sounds like you’re already quite interested in this guy and it’s great that you’re not going to let a birthmark, that might be considered a physical deterrent to others, diminish that interest. But please, please please please, and I cannot stress this enough, do NOT create a personality for him before you meet him (and this is general life advice too, but…). Now, if you’ve already started building up a personality for him based on your assumptions, you aren’t a terrible person but throw it away. People take a look at someone and instantly begin assuming things about them — it is human nature. They size them up, figure them out, decide if they are worthy of getting to know in-depth or not. Are there cultural influences, gender cues, ethnic associations, religious indications, etc etc etc? It takes us seconds, less than seconds, moments, to compile a cursory profile… and then we build upon it with our own little imaginings.
With me, a lot of people come to the conclusion that I am shy, quiet, extremely serious, timid, and that I have nil for self-esteem. I know it is because of the scarring since, when people look at me, that’s all they see (how I know that as certainly as I know it is for a whole other discussion). And when they see it, they think (I paraphrase here to condense the multitude of responses I have received to this question), “That poor man probably doesn’t want to show his face, probably wants to hide somewhere, probably won’t speak up because he will be noticed, probably has been hardened by how dreadful his life must be, and really, who could blame him when he looks like that?” And then they meet me. At first, yes, I am extremely reserved, but not because I’m shy. It’s because I’m anxious at not knowing how I will be perceived and treated. Once I feel safe, I’m silly, extremely vocal, possessing a healthy dose of confidence, and yes, I look in the mirror every day and hate what I see, but I don’t think that I, as a person, am half bad. And, as it turns out, I have devastatingly, but accidentally, disappointed people who have formed fanciful crushes on me because I did not live up to their brooding moody beast of fairy tale expectation.
As for his appearance, if you feel moved to tell him that you find him “hot,” I would caution you not to phrase it as you did in your question to me. In the most basic, unadorned way, people cannot help what they look like, and no one wants to be told that the thing they cannot control is the detractor. Please don’t make it sound like his birthmark is a hurdle (that you can surmount or not is immaterial) to his natural attractiveness, i.e. do not tell him that he is attractive in spite of it.
Also, do not tell him that he is attractive because of it either. This goes a little hand-in-hand with making up a personality based on a facial feature. Saying attractiveness is because of said feature sort of commodifies it. It’s saying that the feature is essentially the most important thing about that person and that, were it not there, you wouldn’t be interested. It isn’t objectifying so much as turning that feature, which may well be one of their most personal sensitivities, into a fetishistic feature which is never a good thing.
Keeping all of this in mind… when you meet him finally….
It’s really easy to say “treat him like you would anyone else,” but much harder in practice, right? Because you’re crushing on him and you’re dealing with something you’ve never had to deal with before, even if you know, deep down, it isn’t anything weird or different or dangerous. But don’t worry, a lot of people freeze up or do something that’s not ideal, not because they’re bad people, but because they are going through the same experience of not knowing what to do.
When most people meet me, they will not look me in the eyes and while it is such a small thing, it really says a lot about how uncomfortable they are, all the while sending the signal that I don’t merit their attention (which in turn makes me feel like I’m bothering them and that I should probably excuse myself so that they are no longer uncomfortable). So, when you meet the guy, look him in the eyes. Don’t meet his eyes and then look away. Look him in the eyes and keep the contact for as long as you’re interacting with him. Don’t look down. Don’t look at an ear. Don’t turn to your friend while you’re talking to him.
Also, be honest about your experience. If you do freeze up or say something you think is horribly insensitive or you do something you think might be interpreted as being unfriendly, go for honesty… maybe not about your crush but for those of us who get a lot of negative reactions, being told that you’re just unsure how to act and that you do not want to be insensitive is completely acceptable. But don’t make the admission about your comfort — make it about his. Apologise, ask him if there’s anything that would make him comfortable, and if he’s willing, ask him things about it (provided that you do so in a kind and respectful way). Granted, we’re people and not all about our facial differences, but what’s the first thing we see on other people? Their faces, and it’s better to address it openly and honestly than to pretend its not there.
Hope this helped a little?
Best of luck to you with your crush!
I'm hanging out with a friend and some of her friends in a few days and one of them has a port wine stain over most of his face. I've seen pictures of him on facebook and I still think he's hot even with it. But I'm terrified about meeting him because of this huge crush and I've never met anyone with a facial mark and I'm afraid I'll act awful without meaning to. What advice could you give so that I won't look like a horrible person?This is a good question, and although I understand why you’re on anonymous to ask it, I wish more people did. I can’t say that I’m the highest or best authority in these matters (so anyone who can discuss this with the wisdom of experience, please feel free to contribute), but I will do my best to be helpful.
It sounds like you’re already quite interested in this guy and it’s great that you’re not going to let a birthmark, that might be considered a physical deterrent to others, diminish that interest. But please, please please please, and I cannot stress this enough, do NOT create a personality for him before you meet him (and this is general life advice too, but…). Now, if you’ve already started building up a personality for him based on your assumptions, you aren’t a terrible person but throw it away. People take a look at someone and instantly begin assuming things about them — it is human nature. They size them up, figure them out, decide if they are worthy of getting to know in-depth or not. Are there cultural influences, gender cues, ethnic associations, religious indications, etc etc etc? It takes us seconds, less than seconds, moments, to compile a cursory profile… and then we build upon it with our own little imaginings.
With me, a lot of people come to the conclusion that I am shy, quiet, extremely serious, timid, and that I have nil for self-esteem. I know it is because of the scarring since, when people look at me, that’s all they see (how I know that as certainly as I know it is for a whole other discussion). And when they see it, they think (I paraphrase here to condense the multitude of responses I have received to this question), “That poor man probably doesn’t want to show his face, probably wants to hide somewhere, probably won’t speak up because he will be noticed, probably has been hardened by how dreadful his life must be, and really, who could blame him when he looks like that?” And then they meet me. At first, yes, I am extremely reserved, but not because I’m shy. It’s because I’m anxious at not knowing how I will be perceived and treated. Once I feel safe, I’m silly, extremely vocal, possessing a healthy dose of confidence, and yes, I look in the mirror every day and hate what I see, but I don’t think that I, as a person, am half bad. And, as it turns out, I have devastatingly, but accidentally, disappointed people who have formed fanciful crushes on me because I did not live up to their brooding moody beast of fairy tale expectation.
As for his appearance, if you feel moved to tell him that you find him “hot,” I would caution you not to phrase it as you did in your question to me. In the most basic, unadorned way, people cannot help what they look like, and no one wants to be told that the thing they cannot control is the detractor. Please don’t make it sound like his birthmark is a hurdle (that you can surmount or not is immaterial) to his natural attractiveness, i.e. do not tell him that he is attractive in spite of it.
Also, do not tell him that he is attractive because of it either. This goes a little hand-in-hand with making up a personality based on a facial feature. Saying attractiveness is because of said feature sort of commodifies it. It’s saying that the feature is essentially the most important thing about that person and that, were it not there, you wouldn’t be interested. It isn’t objectifying so much as turning that feature, which may well be one of their most personal sensitivities, into a fetishistic feature which is never a good thing.
Keeping all of this in mind… when you meet him finally….
It’s really easy to say “treat him like you would anyone else,” but much harder in practice, right? Because you’re crushing on him and you’re dealing with something you’ve never had to deal with before, even if you know, deep down, it isn’t anything weird or different or dangerous. But don’t worry, a lot of people freeze up or do something that’s not ideal, not because they’re bad people, but because they are going through the same experience of not knowing what to do.
When most people meet me, they will not look me in the eyes and while it is such a small thing, it really says a lot about how uncomfortable they are, all the while sending the signal that I don’t merit their attention (which in turn makes me feel like I’m bothering them and that I should probably excuse myself so that they are no longer uncomfortable). So, when you meet the guy, look him in the eyes. Don’t meet his eyes and then look away. Look him in the eyes and keep the contact for as long as you’re interacting with him. Don’t look down. Don’t look at an ear. Don’t turn to your friend while you’re talking to him.
Also, be honest about your experience. If you do freeze up or say something you think is horribly insensitive or you do something you think might be interpreted as being unfriendly, go for honesty… maybe not about your crush but for those of us who get a lot of negative reactions, being told that you’re just unsure how to act and that you do not want to be insensitive is completely acceptable. But don’t make the admission about your comfort — make it about his. Apologise, ask him if there’s anything that would make him comfortable, and if he’s willing, ask him things about it (provided that you do so in a kind and respectful way). Granted, we’re people and not all about our facial differences, but what’s the first thing we see on other people? Their faces, and it’s better to address it openly and honestly than to pretend its not there.
Hope this helped a little?
Best of luck to you with your crush!
Monday, May 19, 2014
Reading in the Park
Spent the day out in the park reading — the wind was rather intense though so I had to call it a bit earlier than I had anticipated. Maybe tomorrow I'll try again.
A couple people have messaged me on Tumblr (I cross-post most of my things -- although the lengthy stuff usually happens here) about how I "hide" in public. Um... I don't. See? I go out in public, almost every day, and do normal things like other people! When winter comes around, it's a bit easier to hide behind a scarf, but I don't generally in the warmer months, if only because you get stopped by cops if you do. ;D
A couple people have messaged me on Tumblr (I cross-post most of my things -- although the lengthy stuff usually happens here) about how I "hide" in public. Um... I don't. See? I go out in public, almost every day, and do normal things like other people! When winter comes around, it's a bit easier to hide behind a scarf, but I don't generally in the warmer months, if only because you get stopped by cops if you do. ;D
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Surprise, unsuspecting people!
One of the pics from the last batch of selfies I took… just in case you were missing my gorgeous face. ;D
If you were worried, I am still around! Things have just been a little insane between tutoring and helping Dea with her work. It is the end of the semester for her and my students, after all!
If you were worried, I am still around! Things have just been a little insane between tutoring and helping Dea with her work. It is the end of the semester for her and my students, after all!
Thursday, April 10, 2014
An Unpopular Opinion about The Man Who Laughs?
I had a conversation with someone the other day about The Man Who Laughs because she had just seen the silent film for the first time and knew that I have a special fondness for it. That inspired me to think about the problems I have with it (and yes, I do have problems with it, despite its magnificence) and why I have those problems.
As much as I think Veidt did a beautiful job portraying Gwynplaine (and there is no other I think would have done better at the time, not even Lon Chaney), I don’t think it is the right portrayal. Victor Hugo is exceptionally sentimental in the book which, I suspect, misled a lot of Paul Leni’s direction, and I think it misleads many readers.
I have never believed that Gwynplaine is a weak character and I do not believe that he should be portrayed as a meek, shrinking, timorous man, and especially not because of the way he looks. Looks shape a person, not make a person. And contrary to what seems to be the pervasive understanding of his character as a man so gentle he recoils out of fear of being approached or viewed or what have you, he’s a young man of twenty-five with a healthy curiosity, a dash of impertinence, and a good deal of nerve, tempered only by acute self-awareness and a serious soft-spot for Dea.
What doesn’t seem to be well-understood is that, behind the disfigurement, is a person, is a mind, as fully complex as that of anyone else, that his existence may put his disfigurement to use, but his reality is not centered on it. He has a life outside of his face. He probably has thoughts as mundane as “the caravan could use another coat of green paint,” or “I really need to patch that hole in my coat sleeve,” or “damn, Homo’s taken a dump a little too close for comfort and it stinks in here.” Then at other moments he thinks Aristotle was a clueless ancient who should stick to describing craters of the moon because no one could then gainsay him.
And truly, to deliver that final speech to the assembly, he needed a backbone, not just in the moment, but in the whole story leading up to it. One does not simply gain all that courage for a momentary plot-point. It is there at call because it is something he has always had. It is the one moment that should define him, not as a disfigured man, but as a man who is aware of his disfigurement, as a man who is so much more than just what people see. And that nerve, that courage, that brazenness to address such a group when you are only tolerated in it, that is not gentle. That is bold. That is bitter and gritty. That is the knife edge that has been sharpened upon the receiving end of disdain and ridicule, of being reduced to a disfigurement when there is so much more to him.
The silent may be moving, may show the pain of the story very well, may convey the moodiness poignantly, but it only shows the tears behind the smiling face. It misses the foundation of the person completely.
As much as I think Veidt did a beautiful job portraying Gwynplaine (and there is no other I think would have done better at the time, not even Lon Chaney), I don’t think it is the right portrayal. Victor Hugo is exceptionally sentimental in the book which, I suspect, misled a lot of Paul Leni’s direction, and I think it misleads many readers.
I have never believed that Gwynplaine is a weak character and I do not believe that he should be portrayed as a meek, shrinking, timorous man, and especially not because of the way he looks. Looks shape a person, not make a person. And contrary to what seems to be the pervasive understanding of his character as a man so gentle he recoils out of fear of being approached or viewed or what have you, he’s a young man of twenty-five with a healthy curiosity, a dash of impertinence, and a good deal of nerve, tempered only by acute self-awareness and a serious soft-spot for Dea.
What doesn’t seem to be well-understood is that, behind the disfigurement, is a person, is a mind, as fully complex as that of anyone else, that his existence may put his disfigurement to use, but his reality is not centered on it. He has a life outside of his face. He probably has thoughts as mundane as “the caravan could use another coat of green paint,” or “I really need to patch that hole in my coat sleeve,” or “damn, Homo’s taken a dump a little too close for comfort and it stinks in here.” Then at other moments he thinks Aristotle was a clueless ancient who should stick to describing craters of the moon because no one could then gainsay him.
And truly, to deliver that final speech to the assembly, he needed a backbone, not just in the moment, but in the whole story leading up to it. One does not simply gain all that courage for a momentary plot-point. It is there at call because it is something he has always had. It is the one moment that should define him, not as a disfigured man, but as a man who is aware of his disfigurement, as a man who is so much more than just what people see. And that nerve, that courage, that brazenness to address such a group when you are only tolerated in it, that is not gentle. That is bold. That is bitter and gritty. That is the knife edge that has been sharpened upon the receiving end of disdain and ridicule, of being reduced to a disfigurement when there is so much more to him.
The silent may be moving, may show the pain of the story very well, may convey the moodiness poignantly, but it only shows the tears behind the smiling face. It misses the foundation of the person completely.
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
A Phantom of the Opera Photo(Manip)
When I got home tonight, I was tired, but I am most certainly not sleepy. I therefore wasted a bit of time playing around with the photo program that came with my laptop. After this month of selfies, I have been getting decent at it, with sharpness and contrasts and whatnot, making the lighting kinder to me. But I thought, I’m a Phantom of the Opera fan and I would like to know my program better… and I’m already not a very attractive guy.
So this is my product of tonight. It’s not terrible for a first try with one of my own photos… but you can still see the lines of my scars because I couldn’t manage to take them out completely. Ah well. Next time perhaps.
So this is my product of tonight. It’s not terrible for a first try with one of my own photos… but you can still see the lines of my scars because I couldn’t manage to take them out completely. Ah well. Next time perhaps.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)