--A good biography tells the story of a life while regularly reminding us that we already know the ending.
A great biography takes us on a ride to unknown places and feelings and helps us to remember that we never really knew this person, until now.--
While reading the biography of Jim Henson I realized that the biographer jumps around, from the moment something new begins, then quickly to the ending we all know or expect. For example, Jim meets his wife-to-be, and we are told very quickly how they meet, court and (much later) marry, so that we can quickly get back to the story of the muppets. But a true biography about Jim Henson would not rush that inevitable. It should tell the story of them working side by side, compatible, respectful, enjoying each other, which builds to that unity.
What I'm reading is, perhaps, a biography of The Muppets. But Jim Henson was much more than the guy who was clever and compassionate enough to create Kermit. He was more than a soft-spoken man with skillful puppetry hands.
If you're going to write a biography, be sure to let the person, not their creations, define them. We are all more complex than what we create.
Friday, March 7, 2014
Depression
Have you ever felt like you just can't catch a good, deep breath?
Like your head is full of fog?
Like ideas are just out of your reach?
Memories, information you need is there but you simply can't retrieve it.
You just don't care, about anything.
You want to care. You know, somewhere inside of you, there is a you who cares. Or used to. Who knows it's important to care what your children, your partner, your friends think and feel. But though you know that person is there, you can't unbury her. She's so deep and you are so tired.
Eating is a challenge because nothing is appealing. Especially nothing that takes an effort. And you know, you know the junk food is not going to fill some void, but it's easier. Crackers, chips, cookies, cereal. Dry cereal. They take little effort. There's no peeling, no chopping, no cooking. Just reaching into the bag and mindlessly shoving the food into your mouth because you know you have to eat. But you just don't care.
Going out, seeing people, is draining -- just to think about,
yet you crave some kind of connection to your soul.
Tears are always there, hovering near the surface but not spilling over to offer some release. And the slightest embarrassment rolls around in your brain for days, poking, hurting, making you wonder why people are so thoughtless.
A tickling anxiety is ever present. It weighs down your limbs and yet makes you feel like you're coming out of your skin. Your heart stutters. Your stomach releases adrenaline for no apparent reason.
You don't want to die. That would take an effort you aren't able to put forth. But if you did die, it would be ok.
It's not a sadness. There isn't a good reason for it. It doesn't even hurt, not the way real suffering hurts. Not the piercing anguish that comes from true sorrow.
No, these feelings are the subtle, eroding qualities of depression.
Every one of them, at once. Weighing you down like a car filling with water as it drifts to the bottom of the river.
Like your head is full of fog?
Like ideas are just out of your reach?
Memories, information you need is there but you simply can't retrieve it.
You just don't care, about anything.
You want to care. You know, somewhere inside of you, there is a you who cares. Or used to. Who knows it's important to care what your children, your partner, your friends think and feel. But though you know that person is there, you can't unbury her. She's so deep and you are so tired.
Eating is a challenge because nothing is appealing. Especially nothing that takes an effort. And you know, you know the junk food is not going to fill some void, but it's easier. Crackers, chips, cookies, cereal. Dry cereal. They take little effort. There's no peeling, no chopping, no cooking. Just reaching into the bag and mindlessly shoving the food into your mouth because you know you have to eat. But you just don't care.
Going out, seeing people, is draining -- just to think about,
yet you crave some kind of connection to your soul.
Tears are always there, hovering near the surface but not spilling over to offer some release. And the slightest embarrassment rolls around in your brain for days, poking, hurting, making you wonder why people are so thoughtless.
A tickling anxiety is ever present. It weighs down your limbs and yet makes you feel like you're coming out of your skin. Your heart stutters. Your stomach releases adrenaline for no apparent reason.
You don't want to die. That would take an effort you aren't able to put forth. But if you did die, it would be ok.
It's not a sadness. There isn't a good reason for it. It doesn't even hurt, not the way real suffering hurts. Not the piercing anguish that comes from true sorrow.
No, these feelings are the subtle, eroding qualities of depression.
Every one of them, at once. Weighing you down like a car filling with water as it drifts to the bottom of the river.
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