The Girl Story
I wrote this in college, when I was seventeen. It was HUGELY important to me when I wrote it. It was one of those moments of inspiration, when you know you are onto something important, something that matters...
Upon a time, there was a girl. She was young, and later she got big. As she grew big, she learned. As she learned, she changed. But in each instant of her life, she was always the same person, and were you to see her little, then later, big, you would see that she was the same person. Or maybe you wouldn't see that. Maybe you wouldn't remember her as she was little, and you would never connect the two people, the little and the big, as actually being the same person. But she always knew who she was. And when she thought of herself, she thought of herself as the self she was, but also as the self (the many selves) she had been. And also the possible selves yet to come, for because she had not yet been one of them, they were all possibilities, and so she was all of them. All of them were one, and as she grew older, they became a stronger, more unique and defined self. But when she had been young, she had still been herself. She was always herself, and she always knew who she was.
Or she thought she knew. She had always been the same person, but her perceptions of herself had sometimes been quite different. Sometimes she was the agile, graceful one. Sometimes she was the smart, bright one, full of promise. Sometimes she was the fat one, the clumsy incompetent one.
Sometimes she was the stupid one, the lazy one, the beautiful one, the charming one, the shy one. One one one one one one one. The word, repeated over and over, made it just a set of three letters, just a sound that didn't mean anything. Whatever she was, however she perceived herself, she was always only one. Every person is only one, a great aloneness within the world.
This aloneness was a great and terrible thing, all at once exquisitely beautiful and a painful torture. It was the greatest privilege to be able to live as an individual, to have her own thoughts, to be herself, her own individual being. And it was the greatest solitude to be searching for someone to share this great self with. For behind the deep alone, there was the quiet certainty that she was great, that she would find someone. Sometimes the certainty was too quiet, and she didn't hear it anymore, and she longed for that someone, HERE and NOW. And then she would sleep, and she would awake with the joy that she was herself, and it was morning.
Or she would walk, in the brisk, chill air, feeling vibrantly happy, and forget the need. Or she would see someone, and he would fill her with pleasure, even by telling her of his sorrows. Any of the simple things that make you happy would make her happy, and she fell in love with herself over and over.
I think if I were to tell you she lived in 2000 BC, you would believe me. And I think if I were to tell you that she lived in a little hut in the middle of the forest with her mean old grandmother, and she went to the well each morning for two pails of water, you would believe that. If I told you she lived in a slum in Miami, you would believe. On a spacestation. In ancient Egypt. In Victorian England. You would believe she could live anywhere. Or I believe it. I believe she could be a man. Would it matter? This description fits many, and yet they are all different. And some don't fit the description at all. But I think most of them lived happily ever after.
Upon a time, there was a girl. She was young, and later she got big. As she grew big, she learned. As she learned, she changed. But in each instant of her life, she was always the same person, and were you to see her little, then later, big, you would see that she was the same person. Or maybe you wouldn't see that. Maybe you wouldn't remember her as she was little, and you would never connect the two people, the little and the big, as actually being the same person. But she always knew who she was. And when she thought of herself, she thought of herself as the self she was, but also as the self (the many selves) she had been. And also the possible selves yet to come, for because she had not yet been one of them, they were all possibilities, and so she was all of them. All of them were one, and as she grew older, they became a stronger, more unique and defined self. But when she had been young, she had still been herself. She was always herself, and she always knew who she was.
Or she thought she knew. She had always been the same person, but her perceptions of herself had sometimes been quite different. Sometimes she was the agile, graceful one. Sometimes she was the smart, bright one, full of promise. Sometimes she was the fat one, the clumsy incompetent one.
Sometimes she was the stupid one, the lazy one, the beautiful one, the charming one, the shy one. One one one one one one one. The word, repeated over and over, made it just a set of three letters, just a sound that didn't mean anything. Whatever she was, however she perceived herself, she was always only one. Every person is only one, a great aloneness within the world.
This aloneness was a great and terrible thing, all at once exquisitely beautiful and a painful torture. It was the greatest privilege to be able to live as an individual, to have her own thoughts, to be herself, her own individual being. And it was the greatest solitude to be searching for someone to share this great self with. For behind the deep alone, there was the quiet certainty that she was great, that she would find someone. Sometimes the certainty was too quiet, and she didn't hear it anymore, and she longed for that someone, HERE and NOW. And then she would sleep, and she would awake with the joy that she was herself, and it was morning.
Or she would walk, in the brisk, chill air, feeling vibrantly happy, and forget the need. Or she would see someone, and he would fill her with pleasure, even by telling her of his sorrows. Any of the simple things that make you happy would make her happy, and she fell in love with herself over and over.
I think if I were to tell you she lived in 2000 BC, you would believe me. And I think if I were to tell you that she lived in a little hut in the middle of the forest with her mean old grandmother, and she went to the well each morning for two pails of water, you would believe that. If I told you she lived in a slum in Miami, you would believe. On a spacestation. In ancient Egypt. In Victorian England. You would believe she could live anywhere. Or I believe it. I believe she could be a man. Would it matter? This description fits many, and yet they are all different. And some don't fit the description at all. But I think most of them lived happily ever after.
posted by Jennifer Conway at 10:02 PM
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