kerewin's whine cellar

Shogun

[Written Friday evening, after a long day of volunteering.]

I once read in Shogun that a Japanese person has three faces; the first is the face that they present to all, the second they only show to family and close personal friends, the third they show only to their innermost self. You get the feeling that all three are true personalities living together, well or not so well.

In some ways this journal started out as my third face. Only a few select friends had the url. Other than that, my anonymous self was only revealed to the rest of the internet world, should they only look. However, because of my journalist training and my deep (insecure) need for recognition as a writer won out, I emailed all friends, family, acquaintances, and homeless people with the url. Before doing this, I read through every post and deleted those few that pertained only to my third face.

The problem with that is that if you are writing a journal, you want to be as honest as possible, you completely reveal your third face. That's only acceptable if you are writing in a place where no one else can read what you write. That would sort of leave the internet out, if you know what I mean. So how honest are you if your writing is edited in case of family issues, harmony with spouse, hurt feelings of friends, or possible job loss? I suppose it puts this writing as somewhere in the middle of the first and third faces. The irony being that this complete turn around on my part has increased my readership by approximately two people, one of which is related to me (hi H-Star!).

Still, there is no going back. Doing this, and making an attempt to do it daily means that I *am* writing. Maybe only one of the fifty or so ideas that do through my head every single day, but putting pen to paper, so to speak (putting fingers to keys?). I am a writer. I am not in the "industry," I am not published, nor am I likely to be, but I get to express those ideas that would normally only be left in my head. Maybe only 20-some people even bother to read what I write, (I am pretty sure only about five of those people are strangers to me) but that is about 1,000% more people reading what I write than ever before.

So that brings us to I.P.N.C.: Well planned, completely organized, a control freak's wet dream. So I am loving it, but my legs have completely forgotten what it is to stand on your feet for eight or more hours. Friday night, after lunch and dinner events my fellow volunteers (Moni, Theresa, and Bill) and I return to our dorm rooms (all the volunteers are staying for free in the dorms of Linfield College). We hang out, have a glass of wine, our first of the day at 11 p.m., and start telling stories. I am pretty sure everyone knows how much I love to tell stories. Somehow we end up talking about David Sedaris, who is a god. Much laughter. Funny Sedaris stories lead into funny, personal stories. We move from shared living room dorm space to the lawn to share illicit cigarettes (what is it about stressful wine events that brings out the casual smoker in us all?) while laughing hard enough to make our stomachs ache.

Another set of volunteers and friends were staying in the dorm area above ours. They happen to have an exchange student staying with them for the Summer. Raboul is 13 and probably a little bored with all the adults. The night before lots of the volunteers who were staying in our dorm area played baseball with him until the wee hours. Today, after we all worked so hard, we were much less inclined. Not so much with Raboul, being 13 and all. We were the people who played with him last night and I am sure he wants us to play with him tonight. So he comes out and starts playing around with his bat and ball. A few times a stray ball comes our way and we want to be nice, but we want to be grown ups tonight, too. Poor little guy. He swings his bat to hit a ball and it just slips out of his hand and full on decks one of the people who is sitting and talking with us (Theresa).

In the midst of the adults swinging into action the 13-year old is beside himself. He doesn't really have the language skills to apologize, but he tries. Theresa is ok, telling him it is just an accident, but she still has her head down. We get her to look up to see how bad it is and she has blood all over her hand from holding the wound. On her eyebrow a large red knot is welling up. I go inside to get a wash cloth, some soap, and an ice pack. Was it the sight of blood where it all went wrong? Moni stays with her and Bill gets the first aid kit from his car.

By the time I get back Theresa is going into some sort of shock. She seems out of it, mumbles and talks of us calling 911. We get her inside and Moni gets on the phone. Meanwhile, I have the ice pack and Theresa seems to be going down in flames. She keeps closing her eyes and has completely lost focus.

"Theresa," I say, rather sharply. he eyes snap open.

"Say something to me, stay with me." She say nothing and closes her eyes. Her limbs start shaking a little.

"Theresa!" I say about five times. I am starting to wonder if I need to slap her. Isn't that what they do in the movies? Finally she opens her eyes and says, "What do you want me to say?"

This is where she started coming back to Earth. Although she does keep asking me if she is about to die. We get her blackberry for her and call her husband as she asks. We tell her we called the ambulance for her and she asks us to bring her contact case so she can take out her contacts before they get there. She just started to making jokes when the paramedics arrive. Even though she was coherent and in good spirits they decided it was better safe than sorry and took her to the hospital.

Raboul went to his bedroom and cried for an hour.

Everyone but me went to the hospital. I stayed behind and washed up. My first face perspective feels awful and wonders how I could have been more help. My second face wonders if this isn't some weird cosmic balance that evens out the true joy we were experiencing before the accident. I could be coy and tell you that what my third face feels shouldn't even be published. But in truth, my third face is a strange jumble of the history of my family never admitting that anything was ever bad enough to see a doctor, wonderment at the idea that a lonely 13-year old boy might be seeking attention, and annoyance at how setup for tomorrow's I.P.N.C. is going to be seriously messed up.

Happiness can move to sorrow at the drop of a hat. Maybe we are expected to take away as many truths from bad experiences as from joyous ones. Maybe there isn't any rhyme or reason at all.

{A funny story from later on: Theresa is Moni's boss and someone said at dinner the next night, "Hey Moni, there are a lot of easier ways of getting a promotion than hiring a 13-year Scandanavian to hit your boss. In fact, we should call you Monya Harding." Of course, good old Monya is one of my readers and I immediately turned to her and said, "You realize that is going to be your alias on my blog now, right?"}

Posted by kerewin at August 1, 2005 09:44 PM