Author: Olavia Kite

Yesterday afternoon, in the quiet of the kitchen, I was prying open a pomegranate and pulling out its arils when I noticed something unexpected happening to me: An idea was coming to me. Words were flowing inside my mind, arranged in patterns that I thought might be worth putting on paper—or rather, putting on screen—, and I didn’t feel like just letting them go in resignated defeat. This time, unlike myriads of other times, I wasn’t daunted by the prospect of having to sit down and think on my own for a while instead of literally anything else. When I say “literally anything else,” what I actually mean is peeling my eyes off the screen in order to glue them onto a different screen and give up my creative power in exchange for countless invitations to part ways with my money.

Anyway, that’s how I ended up writing yesterday’s blog post. Since then, a steady stream of words has been flowing through my head nonstop. I can feel it—it’s a nice little river with a pleasant murmur. But that’s not the only change I’ve noticed. This morning, I surprised myself with a burst of clarity at work. Beautifully crafted sentences poured effortlessly from my mouth, carried by my velvety voice. I hadn’t sounded this way in ages.

Although these changes feel a little abrupt and have taken me aback, I know they’re not an accidental occurrence. The thing is, I’ve been mulling things over. (I can’t help picturing my thoughts as spices simmering in wine. Tasty.) I’ve been paying special attention to the many instances where I’ve heard about someone doing something for themselves—writing, drawing, working out—and I’ve felt sorry for myself because I, unlike them, am incapable of such feats. The intolerable self-pity, which sometimes took the shape of self-loathing, bored a hole in my heart, and eventually it became a burrow for a certain discomfort that came to nest right there.

You know, it’s good to mull things over, especially if the matters you’re pondering are related to changes you’d like to bring about in your life. This is true even if you’re at the stage where you still feel utterly powerless. You think it over and over and over, and the discomfort within you grows and grows and grows, and you never know when the kernel will pop and you’ll just jump into action.

Now, jumping into action is easy. There’s usually a lot of emotional momentum going on to propel a first leap. It’s messy, beautiful and empowering. However, the real challenge lies in consistency. Can I keep it up? Am I really willing to go the distance and work hard to become the person I’ve been wishing I were? That’s the part that makes me nervous. But I suppose the fact that I’m writing these words and haven’t given up on this open tab with its handful of paragraphs proves that, at least today, I already am that person.

Like many in our entertainment-addled society, I watch reality TV on occasion. I wanted to say I’m “fond” of certain series, but that’s not the appropriate word to describe my feelings toward them. They’re like junk food—irresistible, empty, always disappointing, yet always leaving me wanting more. Maybe next time the loose ends will be tied. Maybe next season.

As cast members transition from a regular life into the life of a D-list celebrity, their appearance morphs into the uncanny valley of eternal youth, or rather, the eternal chase thereof. Are we meant to envy that? To want that for ourselves? It looks painful, actually, like an overly tuned drumhead that could rip at any moment. Nobody could mistake that for the appearance of a young person.

But that’s not the most pitiable thing. What’s sad is knowing that these people have chosen to work in an environment of pure toxicity, and their job is to exude as much bile as possible, to hurl it at their colleagues and let it rain down on them. They pollute the world around them, all glitter and gloom, poisoning themselves for the audience. It’s the ultimate sacrifice: they never get to go home and unwind after work, because home is also work. Their bed at night. Their innermost thoughts. It’s all on display for the cameras. They entertain for a living; they live to entertain.

Meanwhile, I’m watching it all unfold, consuming bits of that poison like flakes of fish food, idly waiting for a dénouement that will never come. Who knows, maybe next season.

I don’t consider myself to be a particularly articulate person, especially now that I’ve been an interpreter for so long. I’m always speaking on behalf of others, and rarely for myself, so words tend to fail me in conversation. I get nervous and then even my pronunciation goes out the window.

Of course, this wasn’t always the case. I used to be a skilled writer and a somewhat pleasant speaker. Oh, here we go again with the griping about not writing and not thinking sharply and not speaking fluently! If only all that bellyaching would translate into actual action! But no—here we are again, months on after the last time you said you’d do something about it. Is today finally the day you’ll follow through on your word?

Anyway, maybe I’m digressing here, but I keep having this feeling that my English is outdated. I was watching Daria on TV the other day and everything sounded so familiar, so cozy, so much like things I’d feel comfortable uttering. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if I stopped watching TV between 2002 and now, especially now that everything’s TV, but at some point I became disconnected from the public discourse. And then I started losing entire chunks of my vocabulary. I’m sure I’ve said this before, but I guess that the absolute passivity of today’s media consumption renders an active speaking brain limp.

I have stated here my intention to socialize more in order to bring my language skills back up to scratch. However, the world around me makes it hard (hear me whine again). Last night I had dinner with a group of people from Cavorite’s workplace, and I found myself desperately trying to entertain the guy sitting next to me, like fanning a flame that just wouldn’t catch. I started feeling nervous and second-guessing my every word, and then my pronunciation started coming out all wrong. I could see the guy’s face melting into utter boredom. Then life showed some mercy and the gathering was over.

At first I thought I was angry with myself for not being eloquent enough, but then I realized was I actually angry at was the fact that I had to be this guy’s buffoon in order to save our side of the table from falling into complete uncomfortable silence. How was that my responsibility?

Fortunately, life will keep throwing opportunities at me to get out there and try my hand at chatting and putting sentences together for other people. We’ll see how it goes next time.