SooOoOo Organic

by Molly McDowell

I sat down to start writing. Just as I had been by the college application prompts or the SAT essay, I was tempted to start off with a famous line that I’d once heard, seen, or searched in desperation to find on “greatquotes.com”. My face cringed at the horribly cheesy and pretentious ring that each once gave off. Those essay questions themselves (for example: “Describe the world you come from and tell us how it has shaped your dreams and aspirations”) were begging you to pour your heart out with every cliché in the English Language. They wanted you to be personal, while being completely impersonal. Telling them every detail about your life without really being unique, because in the end your essay would just sound like those of thousands of other students.

I had a possibility to use language to relate to my reader on some profound level, to use words- the one thing that binds human relations and understanding, and I had nothing. I wanted it to be truly great, but I know nothing of how to create great prose or develop an awe-inspiring poetic phrase. So, I tried to write a few paragraphs. Erased them. Wrote some more. Times running out, I needed to study for government. I was getting nowhere.

Its 2:30, sitting in religion class, revisiting thoughts from the night before. I want to write a story that is both witty and breathtaking. I want it to be as good as Salinger or Fitzgerald. A story that makes the hairs on your arm stick up. I search through old memories in the back of my brain, a few stand out. There was breaking my arm at age two and getting an electric pink cast that I would accidentally whack my sister with every time I rolled over in bed. There was my first exposure to death, when I had to bury my goldfish named “pinky,” named both for his color and size in relation to my smallest finger. There was riding a bus for the first time, overwhelmed by the excitement of not having to wear a seat belt. There were entangled memories of nightly cuddles with mom or dad. That familiar feeling of comfort and safety- maybe I could write about that. I’d remind the reader of the importance of having people close in life? Eh, no, that had only surface meaning. I wanted to really say something. So I dove deeper. I could write about Anna leaving for college, learning how to be on my own, going on the big quest for “soul searchin,” No. Still too cliché.

There are thousands and thousands of things to write about. The intricacies go beyond overwhelming. How to choose one?

Well... here is something that comes to mind.

My hands are covered in sooty charcoal, and my face has smudges on it too. Our teacher tells us to step back from the easels so we can look around the room to see what everyone else has done. I just spent the last hour grinding my little chunk of charcoal on my 18 X 24 pad of paper, with building frustration and a melodramatic attitude. I was angry that I was spending my own money on this shitty art class, and that I wasn’t learning anything. Whatever I had just created in front of me was looking horribly messy, cryptic and awful in everyway. My lack of ability to create something pleasing to the eye frustrated me even more.

“Wow, this is, so, organic,” a soft breathy voice says.

I look over to the woman next to me. I’m guessing around twenty-five years old, she’s very defined in her natural, independent, raw-diet, “Berkeley Woman” look.

“Oh... Thanks,” I quietly reply. I’m almost offended. A little guilty for judging her comment, but still, annoyed.

An hour later I’m in the car with my mom, driving home. It’s dark and rainy out, I’m still feeling glum and I remember what the lady said about my drawing.

“This woman in my art class said my drawing was really organic tonight. I hate the word organic. I know she didn’t say it to sound rude, I mean… it was a compliment. But what did she even mean by organic? My abstract sketch contains a lot of carbon? ...But, no, really… There’s something so pretentious in that word. Like she wanted to show me she knew the word, that it was a part of her vocabulary”.

My mom laughed. She understood my annoyance, even if I was acting overly affected by something that this woman meant no harm in saying. I wanted to explain that I hated that she said it out of her determination to portray some image of herself, not to explain to me what she thought about my drawing. And beyond that, it was a crap drawing, so I knew she couldn’t have meant it.

I struggle with writing because I fear sounding egotistical. I fear sounding like the woman who wanted to prove herself with just that one silly word. If she could do that with only seven letters, how much could I bother someone with six entire pages of rambling about my life realizations, about the big shit, the stuff that puts you almost to edge of insanity the moment you begin analyzing it too much? But still, I sit here and want to write something great.

Beyond writing the problem is still there.

My memory goes as follow-

Two years ago I decided to choreograph a piece that would be in a large-scale production (well, large compared to the dances I used to make up with my sister in my living room) at my High School. After proposing my idea to the class and getting people to sign up for it, I came home and started choreographing for my first rehearsal. I remember standing in front of the long mirror in the room upstairs, clicking “play” to start the song, and then trying to find movement that looked right. I kept thinking to the show, imagining what could look perfect for the stage, what turn or lift of an arm could transfix my audience during the 3 minutes that I had their attention. With continued failed attempts to make this perfect dance, I stood there without anything. My physical exhaustion drained my mental state and nothing looked how I wanted. An hour passed, and I didn’t notice till I stopped to sit down at my computer that my breathing was short and my forehead was sweating. I began frantically looking up Merce Cunningham videos in desperation to find some genius that could possibly give me the impulse to make something great. I wanted it to be incredible, even if it wasn’t my own. I wanted to prove to the audience I had some unique ability in choreographing- be the modern age Martha Graham for a brief moment in one silly high school dance show.

So, there is still error. I find myself judging this woman for one word, being unusually cynical for spying a moment of ego that I can’t actually counter balance. I was driven to choreograph and to write for the purpose of presenting myself in an appealing way to other people. Putting ego before simple satisfaction just for yourself, it’s done every day by almost every person. Reasons for this competition? Maybe survival of the fittest, ensuring the continuation of your own blood line through a “unique” lingo or silly petty piece of choreography that will never be remembered. Right… we are ridiculous.

So, in the end, I find that all of it was for nothing. It got me nowhere being attached to these needs; I felt no self-approval in the end. Maybe I could explain it through Zen thinking- I’m officially “detached from all material, personal desires”… Well, no. That’s really a lie. Maybe less of what I want is driven for the (again, Zen) “exterior motives”, but I and you and everyone else are and will always subconsciously get caught up in this cycle of caring. I can promise that even the monks praying on hillsides, the “pure, enlightened” ones find some appeal in the lifestyle of clean linens, shaved heads and rice bowls for each meal of the day. It’s what makes life interesting- our interest in others, and our interest in being interesting.

Before I end this, I have to make a few points to the reader. I come across as more critical or serious than I find myself in the average hours of every day. Maybe this has evolved into a misrepresentation of myself. I used to see writing as a way of making thoughts concrete, but now I’m thinking it might alter them- buffing them up and making them pretty now that they’re being looked at. I hope I didn’t fall into this trap too far, or that you at least understood my thoughts the way I do.

One final note- the next week after I wrote the part about the lady calling my drawing organic, my art teacher called a different drawing of mine “organic” as well. I’m beginning to realize that this may just be a normal way to describe things.

The end.