Faking it*
Surely there are hidden meanings everywhere,
waiting to be uncovered. This was my
hypothesis when I started my latest
self-improvement project “Barbara’s Weekly
Epiphany.” All I had to do was approach the
world with a childlike sense of wonder, to
keep my eyes and mind open, maybe even wear
my heart on my sleeve. All of that
information that has beaded off my
consciousness, repelled by my cynical
attitude and “been, there, done that” grubby
cliché-ridden approach was going to be
captured now, in a mind as open as my VW
sunroof on a light-pierced June afternoon.
I started a blog about the project, wanting
to share my insights with others:
epiphanyquota.blogspot.com.
First epiphany? You have to sell your ideas,
sell yourself, if you want to succeed. You
have to believe in you, or no one else will.
Second epiphany: fake it ‘til you make
it is more true than you think. Third
epiphany? In the middle of a crowded public
park, if you close your eyes and quiet your
thoughts, you will hear the vibration of the
world, the sound of its heartbeat.
The blog started getting a fan base, made up
mostly of earnest young men drawn by the
stock photo I’d put up that looked vaguely
like me fifteen years ago. They were drawn by
that and the supportive and slightly
flirtatious comments I’d left on their own
blogs, encouraging observations on the
quality of their writing, the strength of
narrative voice and character, how close I
felt to them though we’d never met. These
exchanges led to other epiphanies, ones that
I didn’t share on the blog: bullshit
actually works; the reality of the online
world both mirrors and denies the reality of
the solid world; men will believe anything.
One of them -- let's call him Brad, a name
that fits in its brevity and practicality,
that matches his corny, Hemingwayesque
writing style -- got a little too interested.
How was I supposed to know that he would take
my ego-stroking seriously? I thought I had
covered my tracks (always cover your tracks,
a too-late epiphany), but somehow he found my
phone number. I have an old habit of letting
the machine pick up and would stand over it,
listening to these silences injected with
anticipation, the light touch of breath, the
occasional throat-clearing. The messages
hovered in the air, sticky and thick, for
hours after the caller hung up. Brad
eventually told me he was responsible, in an
email where he attached a photo of someone, I
presume himself, in
flagrante. I immediately moved the
sordid pic to the trash, changed my number,
and blocked his emails. There are some sick
fucks out there.
I type this in my ratty old bathrobe, a mangy
Pomeranian on my lap. But I could be lying.
You never know.
*From a Round Robin prompt last
winter ("my latest epiphany"). Every word of
this is made up. Really. And I'm all for
positive thinking, have spent years faking it
and am on the cusp of making it.
Image: "Epiphany," Henry Ascensio. From
Tavistock Gallery.