All my life, I have emulated my life through art, but never saw art as life. I delighted in books because they brought me escape, elucidation, and comfort, but I believed in the distance, I said, not me, not really.
What I mean by art in this instance is narrative. I thought life had a distance to narrative, to all those artful and aesthetic objects I consumed. It was a relief. It was relief to read Munro—an affair, a death—and come out feeling unscathed.
But this distance seems more and more as pretence. The real distance is in the trivial differences: character names, hair colour. The template, the emotions, hyperbolic, but true in its hyperbole. And this is another type of relief, a relief that perhaps the truth is accessible.
But the relief feels short lived every time. It feels especially desperate when thinking of historical narrative, patterns. (I understand I am jumping between terms and definitions, forgive me). Do we fall into the same old narrative? And why this narrative?
Jumping again. Today I have been thinking about interdisciplinary. And it seems, to study in a genuinely interdisciplinary manner is to study in a constant state of doubt.
I will leave it there. I have been tired.