For years traveling with my family I would try and force myself to feign interest in the historical facts my parents would poor from tour books: the architectural details, the dates and names of individuals who helped to build and destroy. I could never retain this information. I thought it was my lack of intellectual prowess which led to this retention and interest deficiency. I thought it was because I was the less intellectual child. The one who couldn’t force herself to find the dinnertime political debates as interesting as the rest of my family… the one who couldn’t get worked up about them.
I’ve been reading Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Giligan… I know it’s a New York Times best seller and everyone and their mother and their unborn child is reading it right now, but I find sections of it so parallel to my life right now. It’s about a woman who had a well-established and successful life in everyone’s eyes but her own. So she goes on a pilgrimage, of sorts, to find her own success… and her true self. In the process she completely recreates and restructures her self. There’s this part of the book where her sister comes to visit her… her sister who is full of the FACTS and rambles them off easily and with all the passion in the world. The author is at such peace with the fact that the facts don’t interest her in the slightest. The history and the dates and architectural details she read in a book don’t float her boat. She writes:
“So my sister comes to visit me in Rome in my new city- and then shows it to me. This Rome, Catherine-style (her sister’s name). Full of facts and dates and architecture that I do not see because my mind does not work in that way. The only thing I ever want to know about any place or person is the story. This is the only thing I watch for- never for aesthetic details.”
Now, I wouldn’t say I’m quite that extreme… I like the ascetics as well and notice them quite often. For example, I love art and art history… but I can relate to that story piece. I remember in High School it was the only way I could get myself to remember the dates and the names for history tests… I would create a story in my head about the occurrence including “Once upon a time…” or “’Twas a far away land where…”
But I guess the point is that it’s ok. I doesn’t make me less intelligent. It makes me different. It gives me different strengths and even more importantly, just being able to admit it lets me know what I need to focus on more to keep up with people that are fact naturals- like my father, for example.
It’s OK to like the stories. It doesn’t make me flighty or stupid. It makes me…
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3 comments:
And it makes you my friend :)
i can so identify...maybe the facts aren't that interesting because it seems that history changes each day and there are always new dates and people to remember and the old dates and people turn out to be inaccurate. or maybe there are more important things in your life that need room in your brain. facts are great but they don't make you more interesting, they just mean you have an interest in history and a great memory. much love.
Wax museums. Every freaking vacation we went on, my mother found the wax museums, and dragged us to them. Even worse, she'd look at one wax figure for like 10 minutes each. The consequence? Neither my brother nor I have stepped foot in a museum since.
Whatever - like whatever you like, embrace it, and screw the details that bore you.
All the art I've learned about has come from calendars. Shit you not, I really dig those stupid art calendars.
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