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.