The open door
You were sure that no-one but your friends and colleagues would be reading what you wrote, but I read it, I, who doesn’t know you.
Your writing inspired me to write this. And I’m pretty sure that no one will ever read it, but that’s the magic of putting things out there Brigitte, you just don’t know the impact it will have!
Who am I, you ask?
Well, someone with the opposite trajectory to you. I started as a librarian. Then I expanded into to someone who believed in the value of libraries so wanted to demonstrate their value.
Then I became someone who was interested in how value is measured, and then someone who was interested in what value IS, and why the things that are valued are valued, and why the things that aren’t valued, aren’t.
Some lives are built up layer upon layer, but it feels like my life has been a process of stripping away, of honing in on the fundamental, until at the end I’ll be at the very bones of my being.
I like thinking about selves and consciousness, and I do it through the lens of myself, because that’s the self I know best. I investigate the depths of my own self because I want to understand the depths of other people.
I wonder if other people are as opaque to themselves as I am to myself. I like angling the mirror, to cast reflected light on the wall.
If people have a question at their core, maybe mine is “how do we get through to each other”? How can people reach each other? How can people reach a shared understanding? How can people understand each other? It feels like the profoundest problem there is, because if only we could solve that… if only we could really understand other people, we could trust each other. we could remove barriers and conflicts, there would be so much less pain, we could share stuff, we could act together to solve wicked problems like climate change.
That’s why I love words, language, information sharing, data, programming, algorithmic ethics. Any way at all that a thought can move from person to person through the world.
Do you remember when that singer said that she thought self expression was boring and she liked just showing what IS? I thought, how weird, because every time a person thinks they’re showing ‘what is’, they’re showing their version of what is, filtered through the sieve of themselves.
Sieve: a utensil consisting of a wire or plastic mesh held in a frame, used for straining solids from liquids, for separating coarser from finer particles, or for reducing soft solids to a pulp.
I once made a drawing for Alex, of the shadows and the reflections of reflections of reflections on the inside of a faceted glass. I like looking inside; deeper and deeper. Into the pool of the pool.
Sometimes I don’t like what I find. I’m trying to be my own ‘compassionate hand’. Its hard, Brigette, because there is just SO MUCH blaming and shaming. The first thing I think is about someone who has less privilege than me reading this and thinking, how dare she feel lost; how dare she feel sad, how dare she feel like a fuck-up. And its true, not ALL of me feels like a fuck up. Not even half of me. Only a tiny, tiny little piece. but its really loud!
Also tiny, yappy and vicious.
I work on appreciating all the good things I have. And then the yappy, crappy little ankle biter pipes up with things like …oh ‘appreciating the good things you have’ (in a parody of an entitled silver-spoon born voice) “on top of being a cry baby, you’re a try-hard and a pompous self-righteous idiot being self-indulgent and thinking about yourself when you should be” …what does the ankle-biter think I should be doing, anyhow? saving the world in my cape and undies, presumably.
What I’ve been doing lately is imagining I’m my own child. When I’m crying, I tell myself gently “Its ok, I’m here when you’re ready. my arms are open, waiting for you. I’ll be here”.
The ankle-biter yaps away… you’re so pathetic and cliched! But I just ignore it.
I tell myself that there is no time limit; I remind myself that I have infinite patience; that I will hold my self in a hug that lasts for ever and ever if that’s what I need, and I’ll never let go; I’ll never get pissed off. I’ll never get angry with myself for wanting lots and lots of love. I’ll kick that ankle-biting little rat-dog at my heels far, far away, and my love will last for ever.
Because the ironic thing is, think about how much good I could do in the world, how much more I could have already done, if instead of listening to the ankle-biter and feeling helpless, I’d just forged ahead, doing good stuff?!
I have promised myself to draw open doors. In aid of this project, I’ve been researching images of open doors by my favourite painters. At the top of this piece is a beautiful open door by Pierre Bonnard.
