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I won't lie Christmas was hard. There is something about family which I will never understand and it is perhaps this strange dynamic that fascinates me, to some degree. While I feel my family spent a large portion of our vacation together fighting, as I left yesterday morning, they each took a moment to mention that they would miss me. In their own way. My brother, teased me saying he would seen me soon enough. At eleven he has an odd sense of irony. My mother awoke at 5:00 am, despite saying she wouldn't to tell my grand parents that she and I see each other all the time and to make sure I'd left what I could not pack for her to bring home. So we could see each other again. My grandmother talked about the cheap rates on Jet Blue while she prepared a lunch I didn't ask for. My grandfather insisted on driving me to the airport, alone. Though I have been feeling this a lot lately, I learned a little life lesson. As each person baited me into seeing them, they were seeking my approval. I know, it sounds a little arrogant and basic, but bear with me. I have spent my entire life tring to pay my debt with these people. I have wanted nothing but to be validated and make good all the work they have put into me, but I found a humbling ideal in their goodbyes. The fact I exist is that validation. They have recieved their payment in being able to raise and be around me. They feel they have passed something on and because I am they vessel, they feel indebted to me. This I could not handle. How do you give approval to the one you seek it from?
My grandfather has a box marked DOD, for Destroy On Death. The idea behind this box is that my grandfather keeps things in it that are singularly important to him. They have, he argues, no value to anyone else. But the unspoken text behind this moniker is that he cannot part with them, so they are to be destroyed after his death. I cannot express the layered emotion this evokes in me, in ways beyond the role of a dutiful grandson. Here a man keeps his life's work in a box, certain it means nothing to anyone, even his family and closest friends. To him it is invaluable, but as he sees it, to others his life means very little. While on the surface, I do feel deeply sad about this, but moreover I am filled with admiration. In his seven decades, my grandfather has learned and passed on to me a simple lesson that has confounded me and rippled my life with strife: Though it will always seem that no one is interested in what you do, and that you honestly believe it may blink out of existance the moment you take your last breath, you must pursue it. From the way my grandfather talks there are acctually two reasons for this. The first is more poetic, that in between paying bills and desparately trying to stay alive in the society we inherited, what we do that we think doesn't matter bleeds into what we do everyday. Everything in that box is why my grandmother loves him, and in some ways why my mother is insecure. For me, my grandfather believed at most it held practicality that could advance me in life. The truely sad part is what he forgot; he forgot the life that happened to get it in there.
The second reason is more trite. No matter what you think, it will indeed mean something to someone when they find it. It is almost an arrogant statement to believe you could spend your life on something that means nothing. In fact, it can't. It is only a reflection of the shallowness of the viewer. This vacation, I saw what was in the box.
I finally found out what my grandfather spent the majority of his life doing. For years I have told all my friends that my grandfather worked on the first barcode. I still don't know if this is exactly true, but the real issue is that I could never pin down exactly what he did. I said he worked on it, but I could never say what he did. Now I know, he was a system analyst for IBM. What's funny about this is that what he did is very simliar to what I have found myself doing, and explains the spurs of inexplicable intrest I have in things such as web design. That's how I got him to open the box. My grandfather was awed that what he did could teach his grandson something. I am not sure I will ever get to experience this (as I have no intention of having children), but my grandfather swelled with a pride that belied his humility. As he pulled off the tape and trivialized the contents of the box, I could tell he was beside himself. He never believed he would get to see what was in there again as there would never be a reason to look at it. As he opened it he was able to relive the best part of his life, that as I mentioned, he thought he would never see and no one would be interested in. For that moment, I envied him
---
It's difficult for the left side of my brain to accept the myriad of ideas the right side constantly puts forth. I try desperately to solidify my emotions in to one identifiable block, not for others or to present a single identity to the public, but solely for myself.
While I know this is normal, I find it impossibly difficult.
---
I want to emulate those I love, and perhaps in this I lose my own voice. It seems I hate everything I say simply because I said it. It doesn't interest me. What I've found compels me to art, is that i can identify with it, that by having someone else say it, I feel vindicated, that I am not alone. Thus, when I reread my work, I do not feel that. I know what it has to say and unless I can contrive some amusement or find it particularly clever, there is no way to be vindicated, as enjoying my art still leaves me alone.
---
I am very scared of the future. Yet all those around me have faith in me, which I don't understand, because try as I might, I can't have faith in me.
My grandfather has a box marked DOD, for Destroy On Death. The idea behind this box is that my grandfather keeps things in it that are singularly important to him. They have, he argues, no value to anyone else. But the unspoken text behind this moniker is that he cannot part with them, so they are to be destroyed after his death. I cannot express the layered emotion this evokes in me, in ways beyond the role of a dutiful grandson. Here a man keeps his life's work in a box, certain it means nothing to anyone, even his family and closest friends. To him it is invaluable, but as he sees it, to others his life means very little. While on the surface, I do feel deeply sad about this, but moreover I am filled with admiration. In his seven decades, my grandfather has learned and passed on to me a simple lesson that has confounded me and rippled my life with strife: Though it will always seem that no one is interested in what you do, and that you honestly believe it may blink out of existance the moment you take your last breath, you must pursue it. From the way my grandfather talks there are acctually two reasons for this. The first is more poetic, that in between paying bills and desparately trying to stay alive in the society we inherited, what we do that we think doesn't matter bleeds into what we do everyday. Everything in that box is why my grandmother loves him, and in some ways why my mother is insecure. For me, my grandfather believed at most it held practicality that could advance me in life. The truely sad part is what he forgot; he forgot the life that happened to get it in there.
The second reason is more trite. No matter what you think, it will indeed mean something to someone when they find it. It is almost an arrogant statement to believe you could spend your life on something that means nothing. In fact, it can't. It is only a reflection of the shallowness of the viewer. This vacation, I saw what was in the box.
I finally found out what my grandfather spent the majority of his life doing. For years I have told all my friends that my grandfather worked on the first barcode. I still don't know if this is exactly true, but the real issue is that I could never pin down exactly what he did. I said he worked on it, but I could never say what he did. Now I know, he was a system analyst for IBM. What's funny about this is that what he did is very simliar to what I have found myself doing, and explains the spurs of inexplicable intrest I have in things such as web design. That's how I got him to open the box. My grandfather was awed that what he did could teach his grandson something. I am not sure I will ever get to experience this (as I have no intention of having children), but my grandfather swelled with a pride that belied his humility. As he pulled off the tape and trivialized the contents of the box, I could tell he was beside himself. He never believed he would get to see what was in there again as there would never be a reason to look at it. As he opened it he was able to relive the best part of his life, that as I mentioned, he thought he would never see and no one would be interested in. For that moment, I envied him
---
It's difficult for the left side of my brain to accept the myriad of ideas the right side constantly puts forth. I try desperately to solidify my emotions in to one identifiable block, not for others or to present a single identity to the public, but solely for myself.
While I know this is normal, I find it impossibly difficult.
---
I want to emulate those I love, and perhaps in this I lose my own voice. It seems I hate everything I say simply because I said it. It doesn't interest me. What I've found compels me to art, is that i can identify with it, that by having someone else say it, I feel vindicated, that I am not alone. Thus, when I reread my work, I do not feel that. I know what it has to say and unless I can contrive some amusement or find it particularly clever, there is no way to be vindicated, as enjoying my art still leaves me alone.
---
I am very scared of the future. Yet all those around me have faith in me, which I don't understand, because try as I might, I can't have faith in me.
posted by IndelibleMind at 9:54 PM
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