tavie.com

Sometimes it bothers me that people who know me casually-- through the internet or otherwise-- tend to see only those sides of me that seem to stand out the most. On the internet, my reputation is generally that of an Ardent Fan. That's all I am. A glance at my website reveals two fan shrines and an abundance of self-indulgent rambling (with, admittedly, no pretenses that they are anything other than that.) But it appears that's all I have to offer: my ability to devote more attention to a particular entertainment entity (or five) than most members of the general public.

I've read my Henry Jenkins, and I know that there's certainly nothing wrong with being a fan. But this appears to be, at this point in my life, all I have to offer the world.

Surely I have more to offer than my ability to admire, and my ability to type fast. I have no hopes that I'll turn out to be one of those lucky people who discovers their passion and is able to do it for a living; I know I'll most likely end up with one of those Boring But Necessary jobs that never turns into a career. But I've always clung to that old cliched notion that everyone is born with A Gift, and it's up to them to discover what it is and nurture it.

Is that really true, though? Or is that something that mediocre people tell themselves, that they possess deep pools of untapped talent, if only they could be lucky enough to discover the nature of that talent? What if it turns out that most people are not very good at any one thing, and muddle along the best they can in their mediocrity?

It's not as if I didn't try. I was never inclined towards the sciences, or the performing arts (too clumsy to dance, too scared to sing, too smart to attempt to act.) I wrote my share of angsty, embarrassing teenage poetry and wisely threw it away. I drew what the art teachers told me to draw, but lacked the skill of a draftsman or the imagination of the painter.

Ah, imagination. There's the problem. I like to blame it on the medication. I like to imagine that if it weren't for this pesky Effexor, that I would be teeming with brilliant ideas, itching to create, but these necessary chemicals dull the sharpness of my creativity as well as my depression. There's always a scapegoat, and there's mine.

And the depression, or whatever's at the root of it, precludes me from pursuing the idea that my gifts lie in more human-oriented areas; that I have great skills at communication, or counseling, or teaching. I can't organize, I can't sell, and I don't want to do those things, either.

Hiding behind the depression, you say? That's fine, but let's see what would happen were I to try and go it alone, without the drugs. I remember high school. It wasn't imablanced adolescent hormones that had me unable to get out of bed, and sawing at my arms with steak knives and staring at racks of pills every night. I can't kid myself that I could get along without the medication. That poor little rock in the Zoloft commercials wouldn't just be sitting in a cave, you know, he'd be rolling himself off a cliff.

But there's this one thing I have, and it's too bad you can't call it a gift, but I do have this naive optimism. This sweet, pathetic belief that I'll discover that One Thing that Jack Palance was babbling about in that Billy Crystal movie. It's cute that I think that. Sometimes I just want to pat myself on the head.

Heh. I love you, blog. Stay gold, Ponyboy.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 9:46 PM | shower me with attention