A coworker and I were chatting about our chosen forms of
entertainment – TV for her, stories and movies for me. She’s obsessed with law
enforcement shows. Law & Order. CSI. NCIS. I asked what she gets out of
watching them. The bad guys get caught, is the main thing. She can’t stand
ambiguity at the end of an episode or season. The detectives and prosecutors
care. They always want to do what’s right. They protect their people. They
protect strangers. They protect not-so-good guys from guys who are worse. These
shows are populated by brave, ace marksmen with superior intuition and
real-time forensics labs. Nothing very bad happens unless an actor is leaving
the show.
She asked how I “can stand” to read so much.
First of all…that question doesn’t even make sense to me.
Secondly, everybody has a hole inside of them. Sometimes it’s simple, one
longing that drowns out anything else we might want. Sometimes it’s rippled and
tiered, stacks of desires and needs. We cater to this absence inside of us,
either working with or around it. Drop tokens and symbols in with the hope that
they’ll fill it. Cop attitude and try to ignore it or keep moving like we’ll
somehow lose it. Sometimes the pit is so vast it seems impossible that it could
be contained inside of one body of flesh.
I’m doing alright (yes, that’s how I spell it). I get
frustrated and sad and enraged, but the edges of the gaps inside of me run
fairly close to each other. I’m not desperately in need of anything, but I’m
always hungry. And this is where the stories come in. Why do I read so much?
Because it’s the opposite of a burden for me.
When I need adventure, I have stories. When I need a
mysterious happening to shut away the rest of the world, I have stories. When I
need proof of friendship and tear-jerking laughter, I have stories. Books and
poems, movies and comics.
If I was born in another age, another country or another
city, I might not have these things. If I had a hole inside of me that burned
for something else, stories might not do much to soothe
me. But I'm lucky.
Other people have different wells inside of them, and I have
to constantly remind myself of this. Other people don't have it so easy. I have to be calm with my coworker when
things around us are disorderly. I have to be aware of my brother’s sensitivity
to a certain kind of criticism. I need to remember the friends who do not just
have gaps, but voids that can open suddenly and try to swallow them whole from
the inside.
It’s easy to lose myself inside of stories, to turn my back
on the outside world. It’s even easier when I’m writing than when I’m reading. Technology
almost makes it difficult to stay connected, because now it’s so (comparatively) difficult to pick up
a phone or meet in person when a text or thumbs up takes only a matter of
clicks. But it’s important, especially when that contact can feed the absence
in other people. With yesterday’s news, I’m fixated on this. Robin Williams
touched so many people in such intense ways, and that was the public – an
audience – from a distance. But he fed the needs that exist in so many people –
for laughter, for wisdom, for whimsy, for kindness. He was unbelievably gifted,
and generous in how he shared his gift. It seems selfish not to look up, to look around, and to reach out, in our own smaller way.
No comments:
Post a Comment