Mmmmm, socks ...

Every so often it happens. I write a post that causes someone pain, and I find myself learning a lesson I thought I’d learned already. Apparently I have more learning to do. All I can say for myself this time is that at least I swung into immediate action, apologized profusely to the hurt party while simultaneously pulling down the offending post (which one can do nowadays thanks to the IntermaWeb), after which I allowed myself a few hours of sitting in a shame spiral.


Anais Nin once wrote:

I write as I breathe, naturally, flowingly, spontaneously, out of an overflow, not as a substitute for life. I am more interested in lovemaking than in writing, more interested in living than in writing. More interested in becoming a work of art than in creating one. I am more interesting than what I write.


If her biopic -- Henry and June -- is any indication, Nin definitely lived an interesting life. Although I think my life could be called interesting, too, I am not personally interested in becoming a work of art, whatever that means. But it’s the line about being more interested in living than writing that resonates with me. Yup. Real life trumps writing every time. Which means that the people I love trump the characters I create every time, which means I will never (consciously) sacrifice my flesh-and-blood peeps to the writing gods.

Thank the gods the long weekend wasn’t all about my stupid mistakes. It started off with a great visit from a dear friend who came from out of town and met me outside Manic Coffee wearing the most amazing pair of socks.


My first thought was, Manic will not do. Her socks required a more specific backdrop. So I took them (and her) to Ideal Coffee in Kensington market, where we sipped molten soy lattes (at my behest) on Ideal’s patio. And it was.

As we settled into a conversation about her PhD anxieties (which I’ll get to in a minute), a self-assured pug rooting around at my feet and making pig noises decided to hop on my lap and make himself at home. Between the eye-popping socks and the perfectest pug, I wondered how things could possibly get better.


As the three of us enjoyed the sunshine, while two of us got high on caffeine and one of us fell in love, I put on my listening face as my friend recounted her dissertation struggles: how she wants to approach her thesis like an art project, but how she is afraid to express her authentic voice in an academic context. I won’t go into detail because this story is best read on the faces of anyone who has ever attempted a PhD. It’s a tale of horror so scary no one has enough hands to cover their eyes and ears. I’ve often thought academia should get out of the business of enlightenment and into the business of torture instead. Water boarding has nothing on the unique self-esteem-eroding methods of the academy.


The long and short of it is that she was feeling overwhelmed by her inner critic, but all I could really focus on were her mindblowing socks. She is always wearing fabulous socks. When she was done talking, I waited a beat, took a deep breath so as to formulate a thoughtful response, and finally managed to ask what I think a trenchant and, frankly, super pertinent question: “Where did you get those socks????”

She told me she got them in Ottawa. They were hand made by a certain designer, etc. And then she told me that she was wearing them inside out because she likes the way the seams look. Fascinating. So here’s a woman who fears expressing her authentic voice in the context of the academy but who has no qualms taking someone’s one-of-a-kind sock design and flouting the way they are supposed to be worn, making them even more original!!!!!

Why can she do it in one context and not another? In a word: context. Martha Beck, one of my favourite humans I’ve never met, describes this contextual blind spot as something we can’t see when we are inside our own culture. There are many French theorists who say the same thing in high tones and with expensive words, but Martha Beck brings it home with a story about a guy who suffers outrageous guilt when he sneaks into his girlfriend’s tooth filing ceremony (in Bali), a ritual he’s not supposed to see. As cultural outsiders, his guilt might seem ridiculous to us (unless you are Balinese). But try telling your out-of-work friend that going to Berlin in the spring time is far more life affirming than a job hunt when her mother sees it as an act of utter irresponsibility (you're killing me!), and you’ll see a person suffer inside a whole other contextual blind spot in which they actually believe their choices might precipitate their mother's death. Yes, it’s a cliché, but it also happens to be a lived truth, at least at the level of a lived fear.


One of my favourite cartoons shows a couple in bed, each with a smile on their respective faces and their own thought bubble, one thinking, “mmmmm sex …” the other thinking “mmmmmmm socks …” I have no idea how this relates to my friend’s sexy socks and dissertation dilemma, but I have definitely had that experience of lying in bed on a winter’s night thoroughly enjoying the feeling of my warm toes inside my woolen socks. But I digress . . .


The day after her visit, I sent my friend pics I took of her sumptuously socked calves and she sent me an e-mail telling me she had posted the pics on her fridge “as a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?” I wrote back.

“Definintely to wear great socks. Probably to also pick up another pair the next time I am in Ottawa. And also to risk being myself. All three decent ideas.”

More than decent. Blogable!