Third Person Objective
©Rachel C
Objectivity was my goal, but I think I’ve failed. I don’t know that I can ever be truly objective, because I am in this. I am in it, in it so deep and so thoroughly that any objectiveness I can manage is bias and cold. In my head it feels like everyday is a new way to look at the world differently, everyday I have a stark narrative, a voice that not only observes how I am responding to situations in my way, but is also narrating the scene as I want to remember it—for literary reasons. I have a running narrative, telling my mind how to remember certain moments in time, so that later I can dictate them accurately and eloquently as I type them into a novel. Part of me thinks it’s sick; the rest: something so unique more people should notice and appreciate. For the rest of me, it is as close to objectivity as I can get, and it’s a first person narrative, which doesn’t bode much for openness in the way the story is perceived. But, I had the feeling that seeing this situation objectively was going to be a difficult thing to wrap my mind around.
Part of me that has been denying forces like God and self conclusion is starting to turn. I used to be confused, when everything happened, when everything came down on a seemingly innocent child. I used to think that karma was a sick joke on me, sick joke on us all. Ever since early high school, even before the divorce, I questioned my belief. I always assumed what I’d been told was the truth, but part of me wanted to deny it while the rest wanted to believe it. My body was in conflict, and I felt almost without a god all the while I claimed to believe in God. I can’t much explain it, or describe it, and my eloquence is lost almost to the cliché of discussing God. And yes, it is all very cliché, or maybe it is all very Godly. Maybe we want to believe it’s cliché to feed the humanist ideals instilled in our minds to live on our own, to never give credit or ask for aide, and to survive in a world without God—because believing in something mightier than ourselves often implies believing there may be a plan already in place. We want to map, live, control, and complete our lives. We want to feel whole without holy influence. But, most importantly we don’t want to fulfill a cliché. We don’t want to admit that prayer works, even though, most likely, it’s only ever answered because we find a way to resolve it ourselves. We don’t want to give in to the idea of God because God is no one we can influence, no one we can tame; and our worldly manipulations are too little to sway Him.
Looking back at this past month, or more wholly, this past half-year, I’m seeing things fall into place in a way I never could as I was living them. When my father left the first time, or maybe even as late as the fifth time, I resolved to write a book, an analysis, of the behavior I observed and conducted. I watched, listened, remembered all I could of the arguments and aggravations, trying to stockpile it all in my memory for a later time to write it all down. It became overwhelming, and I decided to step back, determined to breathe in and let the air settle before taking up the task again. I needed to let my mind rest. I needed to let the memories sit and stew; I needed to give it time enough that, when I came back to the story, I could look at it objectively, from every angle, and write honestly as one sees from the future looking back instead of the past looking forward. And then, sometime this past year, more happened than I’d resolved to remember, and I rethought my strategy.
Overall, I haven’t begun to pen that novel, or analysis, but I am beginning to see for certain the effect of stepping back, the advantage and insight of looking from the future’s perspective. I’m seeing that, if I had never gone to Chicago, I wouldn’t know who it is I want to be; and if I had never taken the step back and packed my bags, I would never see the person I am capable of becoming. It seems to me that there was something in the works before I knew what I was doing, there was something in the making, a plan I wasn’t aware of. And that side of me that wanted so bad to find assurance in science, just so I would never become another cliché, is starting to step in the direction of understanding—that the little voice inside of me, the one that comes from my gut, may just very well be the kind of instinct to believe in. Whether or not what I am seeing unravel is the work of a great and powerful God, or just the insight of a trained writer, doesn’t seem to matter anymore. As long as I continue to feel as if I am doing something right, that somebody out there approves, I think I have an immense possibility of someday being happy.
Seeing the way my life has unfolded, truly looking back from a different point of view does something for me I have never imagined. I can see clearly the irony I predicted, or the symbolism I suggested was important at the time. I can see that, as I lived it, I understood it on some level, the narrative in my mind picking out the literary devices I would someday use; and I can see that, as I look back, exactly how to use them, and exactly how inspiring it is at all to see that they happened in my life and aren’t just fantastical works of fiction. The day I said it poured, it rained and rained; how it kept falling from the sky for days after I arrived in Oklahoma—all of that was real, and how very amazing it is to see. Writers create the rain, the sunsets, the metaphors and symbols to fit with their character’s mood. My metaphors, my similes, my symbols were already in place, the moment I was living them, tailored to fit my mood. I didn’t make the rain this time, and it’s so much cooler that way.
Objectivity is a bitch, but I am starting to think it’s possible, even for a crazy like me. My friend, she wanted it in that moment, the way it happens in the movies. The movies are fictitious; in real life the objectiveness kicks in much later than you can predict.
January 28, 2007
Author's Note: you know the one.
Objectivity was my goal, but I think I’ve failed. I don’t know that I can ever be truly objective, because I am in this. I am in it, in it so deep and so thoroughly that any objectiveness I can manage is bias and cold. In my head it feels like everyday is a new way to look at the world differently, everyday I have a stark narrative, a voice that not only observes how I am responding to situations in my way, but is also narrating the scene as I want to remember it—for literary reasons. I have a running narrative, telling my mind how to remember certain moments in time, so that later I can dictate them accurately and eloquently as I type them into a novel. Part of me thinks it’s sick; the rest: something so unique more people should notice and appreciate. For the rest of me, it is as close to objectivity as I can get, and it’s a first person narrative, which doesn’t bode much for openness in the way the story is perceived. But, I had the feeling that seeing this situation objectively was going to be a difficult thing to wrap my mind around.
Part of me that has been denying forces like God and self conclusion is starting to turn. I used to be confused, when everything happened, when everything came down on a seemingly innocent child. I used to think that karma was a sick joke on me, sick joke on us all. Ever since early high school, even before the divorce, I questioned my belief. I always assumed what I’d been told was the truth, but part of me wanted to deny it while the rest wanted to believe it. My body was in conflict, and I felt almost without a god all the while I claimed to believe in God. I can’t much explain it, or describe it, and my eloquence is lost almost to the cliché of discussing God. And yes, it is all very cliché, or maybe it is all very Godly. Maybe we want to believe it’s cliché to feed the humanist ideals instilled in our minds to live on our own, to never give credit or ask for aide, and to survive in a world without God—because believing in something mightier than ourselves often implies believing there may be a plan already in place. We want to map, live, control, and complete our lives. We want to feel whole without holy influence. But, most importantly we don’t want to fulfill a cliché. We don’t want to admit that prayer works, even though, most likely, it’s only ever answered because we find a way to resolve it ourselves. We don’t want to give in to the idea of God because God is no one we can influence, no one we can tame; and our worldly manipulations are too little to sway Him.
Looking back at this past month, or more wholly, this past half-year, I’m seeing things fall into place in a way I never could as I was living them. When my father left the first time, or maybe even as late as the fifth time, I resolved to write a book, an analysis, of the behavior I observed and conducted. I watched, listened, remembered all I could of the arguments and aggravations, trying to stockpile it all in my memory for a later time to write it all down. It became overwhelming, and I decided to step back, determined to breathe in and let the air settle before taking up the task again. I needed to let my mind rest. I needed to let the memories sit and stew; I needed to give it time enough that, when I came back to the story, I could look at it objectively, from every angle, and write honestly as one sees from the future looking back instead of the past looking forward. And then, sometime this past year, more happened than I’d resolved to remember, and I rethought my strategy.
Overall, I haven’t begun to pen that novel, or analysis, but I am beginning to see for certain the effect of stepping back, the advantage and insight of looking from the future’s perspective. I’m seeing that, if I had never gone to Chicago, I wouldn’t know who it is I want to be; and if I had never taken the step back and packed my bags, I would never see the person I am capable of becoming. It seems to me that there was something in the works before I knew what I was doing, there was something in the making, a plan I wasn’t aware of. And that side of me that wanted so bad to find assurance in science, just so I would never become another cliché, is starting to step in the direction of understanding—that the little voice inside of me, the one that comes from my gut, may just very well be the kind of instinct to believe in. Whether or not what I am seeing unravel is the work of a great and powerful God, or just the insight of a trained writer, doesn’t seem to matter anymore. As long as I continue to feel as if I am doing something right, that somebody out there approves, I think I have an immense possibility of someday being happy.
Seeing the way my life has unfolded, truly looking back from a different point of view does something for me I have never imagined. I can see clearly the irony I predicted, or the symbolism I suggested was important at the time. I can see that, as I lived it, I understood it on some level, the narrative in my mind picking out the literary devices I would someday use; and I can see that, as I look back, exactly how to use them, and exactly how inspiring it is at all to see that they happened in my life and aren’t just fantastical works of fiction. The day I said it poured, it rained and rained; how it kept falling from the sky for days after I arrived in Oklahoma—all of that was real, and how very amazing it is to see. Writers create the rain, the sunsets, the metaphors and symbols to fit with their character’s mood. My metaphors, my similes, my symbols were already in place, the moment I was living them, tailored to fit my mood. I didn’t make the rain this time, and it’s so much cooler that way.
Objectivity is a bitch, but I am starting to think it’s possible, even for a crazy like me. My friend, she wanted it in that moment, the way it happens in the movies. The movies are fictitious; in real life the objectiveness kicks in much later than you can predict.
January 28, 2007
Author's Note: you know the one.
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