"¡Eres tú!"

It's not narcissism which drives me to post photos of myself.  Rather, it's wanting not to interfere with the privacy of others.

And yet, in my writings, there it is (or, actually, isn't ...): my desire to preserve another's privacy either means I write nothing or, alternatively, I can only codify - and by doing so, speak falsely.

But to say the truth ... oh, to say the truth.

I need to say the truth.

Last night I spoke via Skype to a good human being.  The conversation lasted maybe an hour and almost a half.  At no time did we misunderstand each other; need to explain ourselves; need to repeat an idea inexactly captured.

Today, the experience has been so hard.  Facing the truth is, isn't it?

:-(

Spanish is different; and the Spanish are different.

If, in English, I exclaim "I am me!" ... or, alternatively, "You are you!" ... well ... don't you think I am - at the very least - affirming my or your identity?  In an important sense, I am saying you have a right to be who you are ... or, equally, claiming my right to be who I am.

Is that, then, how it works in Spanish?

Some minutes ago an argument cut me to the quick.  Unlike the Skype conversation last night, every moment was a broken-backed failure; everything I said was easily misunderstood.  My own self-confidence disappeared in one fell swoop - partly, I think, because I realise how wrong I may be.

And so we arrived at the last words, the final phrase, the ultimate exchange.  In Spanish:

"Si puedo hablar durante más de una hora por Skype sin problema alguno de entendimiento mutuo con la otra persona, ¿cómo es posible que tú y yo no nos entendemos en absoluto, en cuestión de minutos?

"¿No somos nosotros?  ¿Soy yo?"

In English:

"If I can speak for more than an hour via Skype without any problems of mutual understanding with another person, how is it possible that you and I fail to understand ourselves at all in a question of minutes?

"Is it us or is it me?"

And the retort came flying back in sharp, bitter anger:

"¡Eres tú!"

"You are you!" - but more like, actually, "It's always your bloody damn fault, never mine ...".

This, then, is when one language - English - looks to reaffirm individuality, whilst another - Spanish - targets the maximisation of individual culpability.

The verb "to be" - "ser / estar" being the two alternatives in Spanish - is key to our sense of our own ontology.  Yet here, revealed in all its horror, we discover that an almost burning Catholic guilt underpins its most common usage in the language of the person I love most dearly.

In her perception of what it is to be and do what we do and are, to be "I, me, mine" is not a proclamation of independent existence and liberty, but - instead - a painful admission, a recognition of an accusation hurled in my wayward direction: of dreadful guilt for simply occupying my metres on this planet.

From Wikipedia: "Ontology is the philosophical study of the nature of being, becoming, existence, or reality, as well as the basic categories of being and their relations."

I wonder, seriously wonder, if it's so easy for me to be understood with some people, and so hard - so very hard - to be comprehended by others, whether I am really the common factor ... whether I am really going to be the cause ... whether I am really going to be the lowest of the lowest very common denominators.

I find it hard to believe anyone is bad.  I find it hard, despite all, to believe in the concept of evil.  I find it much easier to feel my way to seeing life explained as a sequence of gross misunderstandings.

We agree far too much; we disagree far too little, in the circumstances.

As we strive to deal with the baggage of culture, puzzlement and unshared bases, I can only remit myself to the lessons of the following three video clips - wonderful process, dream and singer; and in particular, in my case, in her capacity as writer:

The creative process: 6'25"

The dream: 8'30"

The performance: 10/10

Life

Life, in essence, is a question of belief.  It does sound trite, clichéd, simplistic - but it's also so very, very true.  

And if we are sad about our ability to shine, we never will.

It's not a question of talent, thought it is; it's not a question of 10,000 hours, though it helps; it's not a question of all-consuming ambition, though it might work for a desolate while.

It's a question of risking all, around and about one's very being.

It's about believing that when you say "I am me", it is no criminal admission to be ashamed of, but - much more significantly - a planting of personal flag on proudly individual terrain.  

No accusation, this; just a simple declaration of independence.

Not a reckless assertion of thoughtless separateness, but a simply reversion to that state of human liberty all children and their parents all originally began their shared existences with.

So.  Shit goes down.  And that's the truth.

I guess, in the final analysis, I'm - we're - neither good nor bad; just miscued, misconstrued, confused - and kinda - even today - bent out of shape.

All of us, I guess - in some way or other.

Whether our mother tongue is English ... or - indeed - Spanish.

We're all battling to understand our fears, even as we are reduced to ashes by their power.

Surely we should manage better.

Surely we could help each other more.

Surely I had my opportunity, several times.  And surely we could have this opportunity again.

This, anyhow, is my wishlist for Christmas 2015 / New Year 2016 ...

1. I'd love my wife to be able to become an interior designer, so she could spend her working hours creating - with the interior beauty she has possessed all these years - the exterior wonders that only her mind's eye can conceive.  She, of all of us in our little family, has suffered the injustices of not being able to fulfil her childhood dreams; the injustices of having to keep the family unit together when I was falling apart, and giving up on so much she should've had; the injustices of hiding her dreams from the world which deserves to know them, even as I oft selfishly indulged my own.  Her worth is unbound; I am often incapable of comprehending her resilience, her love for family, her ability to continue en la brecha, as she always has.  She deserves much more from this life in what she has left than she will ever expect to receive.

2. I'd love my eldest son to be the man "wearing joyful, multiple hats at the same time" he has grown into, and deserves to become renowned for.  He is one of the most intelligent, sociable, generous, kind, intuitive and impulsive souls I know on the planet, without an ounce of malice in his handsome body.  His worth shines from every pore.  But his imagination, his ability to edit the reality the world presents to him, to battle his sensitivities and make virtues of them ... this ennobles him and blesses the rest of us; in fact, reminds me of so many things I once saw so powerfully in myself.  I love him, above all, for his soul and spirit; for his mature self-awareness, so young as he is; for the potential only he is now realising and beginning to enjoy.

3. I'd love my middle son to be the grand screenwriter, creator and Hollywood creature he has prepared and worked to become for the past six years.  His persistence of vision, his goal-setting, his imposing mind and creative imagination, his ability to sound out his ingenuity, his massive strengths, his inevitably "hollow in places" first drafts he so perspicaciously and accurately identifies, his magnificent reworkings, his love of the language which was never his first language, his questioning soul, his thoughtful assessment of the human condition ... all this and much more makes him, as with all the other members of the family I head, the best of companions on this common - yet simultaneously uncommon - of journeys we call life.

4. I'd love my dearest daughter, so strong-willed, a woman I am so proud to call my offspring, so powerful in her sense of right and wrong, in her strength of engagement with a sometimes despairing world, to be the grand artist, creative soul, hugely private and defiantly public figure she deserves to become.  Alongside the other members of this tiny family unit which occupies so few metres on this planet, and yet still battles bravely to believe it has a right to occupy them and be heard, she refuses to buckle down to injustice - even as her sensibilities make her more and more sensitive to their nature.  She is a paradigm for her generation, as indeed her two elder brothers are also: brilliantly self-taught, with clear moral compass; original, engaging, interesting to the point of fascinating.

5. Finally, to myself.  Last, and I do realise by now, not least.  Not any more.  Never going to be most, because most is a question of point of view; but never going to be insignificant either, for the very same reasons.  

What do I ask of Christmas 2015 / New Year 2016 for myself, then?  I'd love to be known for my writing, for my art, for my ideas, for my thoughts - whether good or bad; indeed, even for my idiocies, if I must have them: after all, intellectual DNA is of a singular whole and can never be separated.  

We all must be able to make mistakes, and learn substantially from them too.  It's just an inescapable reality of life.  But in order to do so, we need to know how to forgive ourselves for such idiocies; not dwell on them; not allow them to poison our daily communications, exchanges and relationships.

Most of all, however, above and beyond what maybe a little (not too much) I selfishly outline above, I would ask for only three tools to allow me to sustainably achieve the aforementioned: 

a) the right sort of boss/mentor; 

b) the right sort of environment to allow me to understand, express and communicate my deepest, even darkest thoughts, in a secure space of creative industry and vulnerable collaboration; 

c) last of all, but no longer least of all, a decent remuneration - let's be honest: enough money to do grand projects of societal, cultural and creative cooperation, without this prejudicing my loved ones, in those processes I am so very fond of.

:-)

And to allow my terror of returning to 2003 to leave me forever; to allow my own self-respect to regain the little family I have before and around me; and to respect myself again as the father, husband, and deep & sensual lover of almost everything, who in order to survive and flourish needs to grow, change, develop and create in what life he has left to him - but adventurously, artistically, editorially, in multiple ways ... never again, no never again ... no longer made reckless out of existential fear.