[ 3 min read ]
Diary of an artist, Friday, July 12, 2019
Woke up 5:00 am
Yesterday I wrote that I treat my writing about my parents as an art project. I choose to look at it that way.
To be honest, I didn’t start it with this thought in mind. One day I just started. I started blogging, then I started writing answers on Quora. Or was it the other way around? Can’t remember which was first. I mean I blogged even before I started answering questions on Quora, but I think prior to becoming an active member of Quora community my posts weren’t about my parents.
The questions I chanced upon on Quora inspired me to write pieces about my parents and about parenting in general. Especially touch taboos (the things most people would never touch), and question the traditional / conventional way of viewing parents. Among other things — I question many other traditional / conventional ways, outlooks and approaches.
At first, whenever I wrote some answer in which I mentioned my parents (talked about the way they raised me, or about their marriage, or about the events of my adolescence and early adulthood — up to my late 20s, and about my relationship with my mother after my father’s death) I felt a certain discomfort. Did I say too much? Did I say something which I shouldn’t say? Did I touch a taboo? Did I cross the line (between being “normal” and “weird”, between being a “good child” and a “bad child”)? Did I betray someone?
But then I noticed that the way I talked about these things, about my parents, evolved. It is especially noticeable when I read my answers or posts from my early period (soon after I discovered Quora) and my more recent writing.
I seem less judgmental and more understanding. To myself. I think I see everything in a way less biased way. I don’t blame anyone for anything at all anymore. I don’t jump to conclusions as easily as I used to. Now I merely describe what I see. I describe their behavior, which is not only their behavior. It’s our common behavior as human beings living in this or that particular time in our history.
I guess that this change in me (this evolution) will be noticed by very few people. Those who read my early pieces will conclude that I am some kind of a sick person, or a scoundrel. Someone with mental health problems or emotional shortages. What the hell are emotional shortages? I used this phrase because I know it exists. No question it is another bullshit term we invented and which we didn’t think through. As if we were all entitled to a certain upbringing. An upbringing which includes this and that. And when one piece is missing there are “shortages”.
Anyway, those who only read the early me, they will probably want to diagnose me (the educated bunch, college graduates and avid readers of psychology pages). They will know what my problem is. They will know what I lack. What specialist I should see, etc. They will try to guess what happened in my childhood or adolescence. Some will bet on the fact that I didn’t mature.
The other bunch, on the other hand (those who only read the more recent me), will see me as someone who is very cautious in his judgements (if there are any left), and who doesn’t jump to conclusions easily. They will applaud my judiciousness.
Music for this writing session: Max Richter (on spotify)