I am reading another Shriver, which could become an addiction like Murakami and Irving (Cannot stand it that there is another Irving book out there that I do not have. What's it called? In One Person? Something like that. I stopped truly enjoying John Irving shortly after he became famous enough to fire his editor, which says a lot, but I cannot shake the addiction in spite of not getting as high as I used to). Shriver is a new addiction (thank you N) and I am not yet sure if it will stick-- but there are signs. Positive signs, yes.
There is a lot of focus here on the aging process experienced by women, the way women change or do not change, as genetics allow. And it all makes a person my age look in the mirror a little skeptically. Has my jawline changed? Have my gums receeded? Are my eyes more hooded? It's difficult to answer these questions if you didn't spend enough time in the mirror in your twenties to remember what you looked like then; there must be physical changes but I am not sure what they are. I can feel the changes in my heart, and in my head, but that is not apparent to the camera so who cares.
When I was too young to understand it, I read a book called The Women's Room (I think. Cannot remember the author) in which a woman was unable to look at herself in the mirror properly. Unable, that is, to take in the whole picture at once. She could see her mouth, assess the mouth, check the lipstick, make sure there is nothing in the teeth. Or she could see the eyes. Mascara is not clumping, circles not too dark. Or whatever. One piece at a time, but never a whole picture of herself, never a cohesive image of the parts creating a whole person.
I was too young to understand that book in its entirety when I read it -- but that description stood out and stayed with me because it was how I saw myself then, and how I still see myself now, when I try to assess who other people meet. I see myself as a collection of tiny pieces, but I do not know what those pieces are when connected. And that is why I do not recognize myself in photographs or in stories other people tell. I can find my eye, I can pick out my laugh in a noisebox, but I do not know myself in three dimensions. I do not know what you see at all, and that is a strange thing to say to oneself, so perhaps I should not.
Shriver's voice is penetrating, such that I feel compelled to listen carefully. Compelled to check the words of which I am not certain, compelled to reread that which was murky upon first read. I am no longer a voyeur; I am a student, trying eagerly to learn.
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7 comments:
I saw all of you so I am in a position to comment. I saw an exceptionally beautiful face which was all perfect and proportioned. I guess that was the process going through my mind, anyway, though I didn't think it in that way. There are studies, aren't there, of faces and their proportions, and how we are drawn to certain faces with certain proportions. I think there is some equation or something. And then I suppose the only only other thing I zoomed in on (not literally) other than your eyes (which are really very gorgeous) was the fact that you had a little nose stud which seemed, in my head, to bond me closer to you as I have one too. Sisters in Nose Studs (good name for a band).
I mean, I am straight, but I certainly fancy you. ;)
There probably is an equation; figures it would boil down to math, doesn't it? I hate math. Sisters in Nose Studs is a very fine name for a band. You will be the vocalist, obviously, and you play piano too, don't you? That leaves me with my beginner-level guitar and a few honks on my harmonica. We'll be famous in no time!
I figure how you appear to others is based as much on their prejudices, preferences and history as much as it is based on your presentation.
I have always hoped that your avatar is actually YOUR eye. as an artist, I can say it is a very good eye with an excellent brow arch--and not all plucked. I think it must be yours...
Jerry, I agree. And it's another reason I've no idea what other people see, because I cannot guess what else is influencing that perception.
Bridget, that is my eye, and I am glad that you approve of it!
I don't know what I look like either. I've always thought that I was unphotogenic, even as a child, or else far uglier than I imagine when I see the lips, eyes, teeth, or whatever part needs attention in the mirror. It's so strange that we spend our entire lives inside this body and really have no idea what others see when they look at us.
I like Irving very much, too. "Until I Find You" almost inspired me to get tattooed. Almost.
Until I Find You was great, wasn't it? Have you read Last Night In Twisted River? Or the new one? I wish he would write again like he used to... like A Widow For One Year, and A Prayer for Owen Meany. He's become too verbose lately; I want him to exercise a little more self-restraint. Or maybe I mean me.
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