(AKA, Delusions of Grandeur and the Mediocrity Inspired Thereby)
By way of a disclaimer, or explanation, or some other such self-appeasing bullshit: this space intended to be one in which I write about tarot readings and meditations and herbal experiments and ritual constructions and projects. I will write about all of those things.
I feel, though, that in order to discuss those things effectively, and coherently, it will be necessary to delve into some nasty internal shit that might seem either desperately self-involved or inexcusably irrelevant.
To which I say, simply, fuck it.
I had a dream about a professor last night.
Lately I've been waking up with nothing - no memories or images or sensations to suggest what has transpired in the dark recesses of my brain through the night. To some this is normal, to me it is disturbing. My dreams are a barometer, a way of keeping my finger on the pulse of my internal/spiritual life. Not remembering them doesn't mean nothing is happening, it just means I am terribly out of touch. It means I am not even listening to myself.
Which, for the record, is bad.
So my first response this morning was relief. My second was, "Wow, that was fucking weird."
This particular professor, we'll call him Dr. L, is someone I haven't seen in almost ten years. We weren't especially close, and he wasn't that important of a figure in my history except that this was during the era in which I lived my entire life in subtext. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out why he terrified me, and if I was attracted to him or if I simply hated him because he was a pompous ass, and if he could tell any of this, and if he was really trying to fuck with my head as much as it seemed like he was trying to, or if I was flattering myself and he was oblivious to the whole thing.
I've got a lot more confidence in these types of things these days, I don't think I would have been so confused. It makes a lot more sense in retrospect. (Hint: he was actually an asshole, and he wasn't as oblivious as I'd sort of hoped.) But there's no sordid story here, and I haven't thought about Dr. L in a long time.
So I dreamed that I was in a class of his, except it was an English class. (Not the subject matter he actually taught, but the one that I hope to someday.) We were talking, outside of class, about a paper that I was working on. He loved my paper. He thought it was amazing. He thought I was amazing, and I was overjoyed. All I could think of was, "Fucking finally!" He'd figured out how terribly awesome and special I really was. He respected me.
And in the haze of waking up, before I put the pieces together and realized that it was a dream, I was pretty fucking psyched. I felt like I won a prize. Dr. L had finally realized that out of all his classes and all his students and all of the people in the world, I was fucking special. About damn time.
Then, I was really awake.
Then, I thought, "That's pretty messed up."
"I am a narcissistic ass."
"This is some weird childhood thing, isn't it?"
I'll be honest with you, gentle reader: there is little that I fear more than being perceived as a narcissist. I'd rather be seen as irritatingly self-defeating. Morose. At least there is a place in society for that. We have TV shows and self-help books and endless rituals for cleansing yourself and forgiving your inner fuckwit.
Just for the love of something cool please don't let me ever be that person. The person who only gives a shit about themselves and tells stories about how awesome they are and all of the rockin' stuff they do.
That said, it is true that when I was very young, I was generally perceived as being crazy smart. Not graduating MIT at 9 smart, but "Let's give her this college-level math problem when she's 8 and sit back and see what happens" smart.
I joke that I peaked at 5.
Somehow through all of that, through everyone being pretty astonished at me much of the time, I developed some kind of addiction to astonishing people. To being some rare and prized kind of something. To being special. My measure of success is blowing people's expectations out of the water.
Just doing a decent job, doing something correctly or well, is bullshit. I want to do it correctly and well in half the time and revolutionize the process and be named Queen of Doing This Thing. I don't want to be better than everyone else, I want to be better than everyone else thought anyone could possibly ever be.
And on days, like today, when I am pretty sure I'm not going to be astonishing anyone? When I am exhausted from a long week and taking a shower sounds like a lot of work? I just don't see the point. If I can't blow your mind I might as well stay home. (Stay home, that is, and contemplate what a Worthless, Useless Failure I am because I never do anything amazing anymore.)
You are probably thinking, "You need to get the fuck over yourself," and you would be quite right. Any ritual suggestions for that one?
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