Mark On the Wall

Switch

I made that switch. Find me here.

posted by Mckenzie @ 19.1.07 0 comments

The Meeting

“You aren’t normal,” he bluntly states.

I am caught off guard and shift awkwardly in my chair. He doesn’t notice. Instead he proceeds to speak, “You know this, of course—that you aren’t normal. You don’t want to be normal. Honestly, normal scares you. You naturally think outside of the box, which isn’t a problem—except for most everyone thinks inside the box, and they want to put you in it….”

Nearly twenty minutes roll by before he is done analyzing me. Twenty minutes of frightening, unbelievable accuracy which renders me speechless. All the self-denial in the world could not shield me now, and I saunter back to my desk wondering why it is-- why now, why these last two weeks-- have I been forced to face my own worst enemy?

I sit down with a burn in my face and reread the quote he handed me as I walked out the door:

“If we do not rise to the challenge of our unique capacity to shape our lives, to seek the kinds of growth that we find individually fulfilling, then we can have no security: We will live in a world of sham, in which our selves are determined by the will of others, in which we will be constantly buffeted and increasingly isolated by the changes around us.” (Nena O' Neil)

I swallow, set the paper aside, and hear an echo of earlier words, “Kenzie, don't be a sham. Don't waste your potential. It will be very disappointing if you do.”

I grit my teeth and get back to work.

posted by Mckenzie @ 17.1.07 0 comments

Care vs. Care

There are people who care; there are people who care.

I have come to find the difference between care and care. I have noted the distinction not only in people around me but in myself, the moments of casually caring vs. sincerely caring, of caring because one has to vs. wanting to care.

1. Care: One cares because a.) If they act as though they do not care, they look self-centered, b.) They have needs and wants to be fulfilled from the person seeking care, and without an act of concern, these needs and wants may go unfulfilled. Basically, the person cares because it benefits them to do so. This sort of caring is conditional. Once assistance of care is rendered, (rather this assistance comes physically or emotionally), the care-giver demands something in return—be it time, money, etc. In truth, the only real caring going on is for themselves.
2. Care: This sort of care is unconditional. The person is not seeking self-righteousness or other demands, but genuinely has concern for the one in need and desires a way to help, rather by lending an ear, giving space, being completely honest, or providing something tangible (e.g. money, shirt, etc.). It is perfectly unselfish.

I find all of us guilty of both.

I find (now recognizing the difference) that it is stupidly easy to detect people who care and people who care. I find that I want to be the person who cares and not the one who cares, because I know all too well what it is to have conditional friends, conditional relationships, conditional associates, and conditional confidants.

Conditional hurts.

Because of everything happening these past weeks, I worry if I have shown a great deal of conditional and caring, and pray that I have been more unconditional and caring. Whatever the case, I know what I want to be.

posted by Mckenzie @ 9.1.07 0 comments

Writers

A fellow-blogger posted about his favorite philosophers. I thought to do the same, though just about two of my favorite writers. Here goes:

Virginia Woolf

“A woman must have…a room of her own if she to write fiction.”

Woolf made a permanent dent in literature by using the technique known as stream-of-consciousness. My first read of her work, A Mark on the Wall, left me unmoved and bored to tears. This later changed as I delved into her personal history, and later, read the book, Mrs. Dalloway. Since, I have read every biography, journal, and letter about Woolf that I can get my hands on, as well as extensively researched her writing.

Sylvia Plath

“Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.”

I learned of Plath on my own. I had never heard of her, until the book, The Bell Jar, literally fell into my hands. After reading the story of Esther Greenwood, a girl who suffers severe depression (and parallels Plath herself), I came to appreciate the genius of her writing—especially after examining her journals and poetry.

posted by Mckenzie @ 19.12.06 0 comments

A Merry Little Christmas

Dear ----,

Christmas is near. Garland is wrapped around the staircase; the tree is festooned in white lights and snowmen ornaments, while a glut of brightly wrapped presents sit beneath, waiting to be opened. The scent of pine and berry radiates from the candle on the dining room table, and a fire, bustling golden-orange, warms the house. There are Christmas cards, mint chocolates, and candy canes-- not to mention the other knick-knacks decked about to celebrate the holiday, but with all the bliss, I still feel that something is missing.

I sit on the sofa, and moments like this-- when I am quite alone-- are moments made for sipping wassail and burrowing into the thickness of a comfy blanket. It requires a book, too. Woolf, Plath-- maybe Lawrence. I am undecided. Mostly caught up in thoughts that have nothing to do with anything, but the slight twitch in my stomach, the uneven cadence of my heart says that maybe…maybe it has to do with everything.

I want to tell you.

If you sit here-- just right here, next to me, I will, too.

I will tell you everything without saying anything, because all you will do is look at me, and you’ll know what I cannot form into words-- what does not feel right to utter out loud. We will smile and laugh, and whatever dialogue finally breaks the surface will be indistinct, as it has always been…coded to our sole understanding.

You are not here, though.

You are, in fact, what is missing.

posted by Mckenzie @ 18.12.06 0 comments

The Neverland Days

Do you recall the Neverland days?
I do. We used them so freely,
thinking they would never fade...
sailing cool, summer evenings
aboard the Jolly Roger
and dancing moonlit nights
with the Aborigines.
Once, the mermaids snatched you,
another time they did me,
but we escaped and flew, flew, flew
until our shadows ceased.
And then we grew a little taller, a little wiser,
and somewhere a fairy fell dead.

posted by Mckenzie @ 7.12.06 0 comments

Books

My favorite book, Mrs. Dalloway, is looking rather pathetic. The cover is worn at the edges, spine dull, pages highlighted and dissected with small blots of red ink in the margins, and when I lift it from the table, a slip of paper falls out-- it is the ‘bookmark’ I used, (a bit of paper from a pad at the Palazzo Sant Angelo in Venice), when I had nothing else on hand.

Books.

What would the world do without books?

posted by Mckenzie @ 3.12.06 2 comments