The (WO)man, the Myth

This morning I woke up and thought to myself, “I need to share.”

It wasn’t that forceful need to share like you experience in Kindergarten when Bobby wants to devour the contents of your Barbie pencil box. He approaches you under the guise of creativity, hoping to talk you,  artist to artist, into sharing a few crayons, markers, or colored pencils. He stares at your box with such covetousness and need that you pull it away and tuck it under your chair. Neatly. In response to his tearful complaints, the teacher turns and tells you (YAH YOU!), “Geena. Don’t be greedy.” So you pass it to him. And watch him eat.  Your crayons, color by color.

No, this feeling I felt this morning wasn’t like that.

In the midst of eating an entire papaya that I found in the depth of my refrigerator (Gross.), I realized that I truly love to write.

This epiphany, of course, was anticlimactic. Everyone has seen the myriad of notebooks that fill my closets and bookshelves and nooks of space.  These books,  filled with poems and stories and silly thoughts,  taught me that I love to write long ago.

So, I meditated on my creeping amorousness for the written word for a minute and identified my desire as less of a new-found love for writing, and more of a loss of publishability. In my heart of hearts this is a loss I’ve been mourning for some time now.

My current life as an audience-less twenty something grad student/teacher/earth mother hybrid doesn’t leave me with much of an outlet for my creativity. This seems strange seeing as I’m surrounded by people who listen to my advice and encourage my responses. However, I’ve lost myself in a world where I’m used to listening and prone to keeping my ideas to myself.

In my undergraduate years, I had mind-blowing discussions with exotic advisers about life and religion and the world beyond my doorstep. I spoke the words of many tongues and gave presentations and wrote theses about my passions. People read them. People listened. I felt on top of my small world.

Now, I am Atlas. I hold up the worlds of others to keep them from traveling down the path(s) of destruction. The passion for my own creative thought, music, dance, soulful and authentic movement and sound dissipates with the pitter patter of footsteps into my classroom and the movement of fingers on keyboards that share empty tweets, texts, and posts.

Alas. Today it ends. Maybe no one will read this blog, maybe no one needs to for me to feel well-expressed.

Nonetheless, here it is, here I am. I’m proud of it.

 

 

                                                                                                 “Laconian black-figure cup, ca. 560 B.C. The two Titans endure the punishments of Zeus: Atlas holds up the star-studded heavens and helplessly watches the vulture attack his brother, Prometheus, who is bound to a column. (Vatican Museum)” [Morford, Mark P.O. and Lenardon, Classical Mythology Eighth Edition, 2007.]

 

 

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One thought on “The (WO)man, the Myth

  1. Geena,
    Most important about this blog is the fact that you are proud of it, but I just wanted to say I am so so proud of you for identifying the passion and discipline to begin this project, for putting yourself out there, and for finding and committing to your own personal development. You’ve got at least one reader ;-). Maybe you’ll inspire me to finally start blogging again.
    Love,
    M

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