kethrai's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Confessions of a former drama queen My sister thinks I am a drama queen. She’s right, or at least she was—I certainly kicked up tons of dust when I was younger. It wasn’t enough that I got my way, I wanted everyone around me to agree that it was the best possible outcome. I was a bulldozer—a steamroller, baby, and don’t you forget it. I’ve learned a little bit about tact and a whole lot about ignoring what other people think of me in the years since, with the result that my drama is, at least, quieter in the end run. I do more or less what I like in my more or less private life, and it’s all good. It may be part of the job description to be somewhat self-centered, as an artist, but it’s not necessary to diminish everyone surrounding you to rubble in order to make your point. But you know, I rather….miss it. One of the things I miss about the drama is that I was so certain. I can finish a beautiful poem or a beautiful piece of jewelry now, and rather than running to the rooftop to shout “Hey, SEE what I MADE!!!!” I wonder rather worriedly if I’m actually creating art or crap. Part of being a Drama Queen is the certainty—the absolute certainty—that everyone is interested because YOU ARE the hub of the universe, you are the rotation in the axis, you are the backbeat on the drum… and while for the sake of social harmony, it’s a good thing when we grow out of (or have it beaten out of) that phase, I find it sad that we know longer know what we create is good or not. That certainty…that golden moment of hubris—is gone. My sister deals a fine line in truth, actually. A fine line in the sense of being rarefied, pure, powerful, and damnded uncomfortable. She told me once that I only liked a craft or an occupation that was flashy to look at but easy to learn. Anything actually difficult and I would give up. She was quite correct, although she’s recanted of the statement since—I think she cares a little more about my feelings these days. I really demand of myself a half-way decent product the first time out, or I don’t repeat the experiment. If it’s ugly the first time, why persist? Why try try again? Why prove that I cannot achieve what I set out to do? That hubris, at least, persists in me—I don’t like to be seen to fail. Not publicly. No thank you. But that is a negative image , colors reversed, of being a drama queen…not a thing that one can be proud of, but just avoid looking at. There is a trend, a fashion of parading one's mistakes that I am uncomfortable with, maybe because I'm a New Englander. There's a faint squidginess in me when someone parades their errors in front of me, even if in the name of "see how I've improved?" I find it shaming to talk of my failed relationships and things I've screwed up. I don't like admitting to fault. I hide or kill ugly early pieces of jewelry, and have thrown out vast reams of early poetry. I admire the people who are willing to show the road they've travelled. I want to spring directly from the forehead of Now. That's what I miss about dramaqueendom...the certainty that Now is the Best Possible Thing. 9:21 a.m. - 2002-05-04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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