Self-insertion and its quandaries

I have never conceived of my Shepard as myself.  Perhaps an extremely idealized version of myself in some ways - the “this is what I would choose if I were in this situation” mentality.  A lot of my personal traits crop up in my Shepard, magnified: the desire to do good, exasperation at ignorance, a carefully held-back desire to knock people’s heads together when they’re being stupid …

But my Shepard was not me.  There was something fundamentally not-me about her, and I thought that was one of the reasons I loved her so much: she was me, and not-me, and a powerful woman to whom, in some backwards way, since I ‘made’ her, I could look up.

And then I went to IMC this week [a few weeks ago] (the International Music Camp), where I interned with the drama instructors, and the coordinator described me thusly: “someone who has a wonderful “what more can I do?” attitude.”  I was touched, since I hadn’t felt like I was doing much more than what I considered my job.

I was in my car, listening to “M4 (Part II)”, by Faunts, which plays at the end of the first Mass Effect, and which always gets me thinking about my ME Shepard OTP (which is Shakarian in case you’ve been under a rock :P).  Mass Effect, and Commander Shepard, and all the other characters in this vast amazing universe, often get me thinking about life and its meaning and our place in the universe …

and then those sentences popped into my head.  ”What more can I do?” … and then, “This is my job.”

I realized that those two sentences described my Shepard perfectly. She sees it as her job to do everything in her power to make the universe a better place.  And I sort of feel like that’s my job, too, as an artist and as a human being.

Suddenly I had universes colliding, and I had a moment of mental vertigo. Commander Shepard - my Commander Shepard - was never really meant to be me. But she is me, in a way.  In many ways.

Or, perhaps, she is a woman whom I would like to resemble in some ways as I grow older and mature.

I think we see ourselves in all well-crafted characters, and so I can’t say I’m terribly surprised that I’ve started seeing Shepard in myself, and myself in Shepard.    But the way it happened … was just so … backwards.

Alright, musings over.  (Not really.  There will be/have been more.  Just not here.)

some thoughts on marriage

Preface: I've been in a relationship for just over four and a half years now, and have probably thought about marriage way more than a lot of people do in day-to-day life.  I'm just now starting to puzzle out what marriage means to me, and write a little bit of that down.  You're free to disagree with me, of course.  I think the meaning of marriage can differ depending on your personal situation, your culture/history, etc.  So these are the thoughts of one Caucasian, Canadian, Christian woman nearing the end of her teens.  They may or may not apply to you, and that's okay.

What is marriage, anyway?  A commitment between two people to be the other's partner, companion, friend - a promise to seek to fill the other's needs, directly or indirectly; a promise to guard and protect the other; a promise to love, cherish, adore, and respect the other as an individual - to uphold them with respect and love through any means possible. Marriage is a commitment to be steadfast when the other is weak, to love unconditionally through all the different permutations of love and life, to stand between the other and the world if they need a shield, or to have their back when they take on the world.

Marriage is accepting that it's never going to be perfect, but you want the other at your side, at your back, taking point, through all the imperfections.  Marriage is choosing to put the other first, and trusting that the other has your best interests at heart, and will do the same.  Marriage is trusting the other with every aspect of your life.

Marriage is living with a friend, near or far, physically and mentally, spiritually and emotionally.  Marriage is knowing the other is thinking about you.  Marriage is choosing to take on the world as a pair, rather than alone.

domesticity (or rather, the connotations thereof)

Domesticity is a funny word.  Does it mean powerlessness, or empowerment?  I suppose it depends on your personal bent.  I think it can be either.  For the person who needs to be out and about, domesticity can be deadly to the spirit; for the person who seeks a home ground, a safe haven, a place of their own design, then domesticity can be a godsend.

But don't we all want a home?  I would argue yes, but I would also put forward that home can have many definitions.  Home is where the heart is, after all, and if your heart belongs on the road, or on the sea, then a bungalow with a white picket fence just won't do.

How does one seek their home?  I have always sought escape.  From where, what - life? responsibilities? anxiety? depression? yes.  To where, what? ... Good question.  Isolation.  Art.  Intelligence.  A place where I am unafraid.  That is home - where you are unafraid to express yourself.  

I wonder how many artists are ever truly home, in their heart of hearts, in their soul.  

There is beauty in so many things.  There are no confines to beauty.  On beauty.  Beauty has no limits.  We see beauty differently.  And isn't that terrifying?

applesauce

My man has left for his parents’ house. He will be staying there for the week, while he works the first third of his practicum with a construction company based in that particular town. He will be back here for the weekend. Then he will leave for Winnipeg, and do the same thing. Then he will come back. And then he will leave again, for who knows where. And then he will come back.

And if all goes well, and things work out, he will have a permanent job with this particular company for the next few years while he finishes his apprenticeship. If that goes well, he will become a Red Seal carpenter (if that’s how you say it) and will be able to work anywhere in Canada. (And then he will leave, and build things in various places, and I will stay, and I will sing.)

He walked out the door thirty minutes ago. (For those of you who can’t read between the lines: I miss him like you wouldn’t believe.)

So I’m sitting at his computer, eating applesauce, trying to decide if I’m going to follow him to his parents’ place for the afternoon (a forty-five-minute drive), and spend the next few hours with three raucous children, his very British parents, and his even more British grandmother (who will no doubt ask us very bluntly, but with the best of intentions, when we’re finally planning on getting married), and him.

It’s been an iffy weekend. The chances of my getting a job that will allow me to take time off for my prior commitments (a couple days in May, a week in June, possibly two weeks in August) are looking more and more slim as the days go by. I’ve not been sleeping well. He and I have been snapping at each other more often than not. I spent 90 minutes dancing last night (and I don’t dance), so my legs and feet are killing me (but my heart is thanking me!).

I’m tired and I’d really rather have a nap. But on the other hand, this applesauce, though it cheered me up considerably yesterday (I love applesauce), is simply not doing the trick, and spending Sunday afternoon on my own is more likely going to send me into a spiral of depression than give me any real rest. I have no idea whether spending the afternoon in a house which will possibly be very loud, and will certainly have two dogs in it (I don’t like dogs), will be much better, but there will at least be him …

Does that make up for everything else? Some days it does. Some days I wish he could read my mind. Some days I wish he would go far away (and then come back). But more often than not, as the years go by (four and a half last week), I wish I had him right beside me.

yeah yeah, I know, mushy crap, blah blah.

“You’d think people would have had enough of silly love songs.”

“I look around and see it isn’t so.”

“Some people want to fill the world with silly love songs … “

“Well what’s wrong with that, I’d like to know - ‘cause here I go again … “