So yesterday, I found out that my parents read my blog (if you are reading this Mom+Dad, please don’t comment :p ).
To be sure there were hints before. The thought had crossed my mind.
After all, my mother had already been commenting on my Lincoln Center blog for a while, posting comments like “pithy!” and “this one’s even better!”
The real kicker was last night though.
After a weekend producing a relatively calm shoot for my buddy Chao, I was having a combination wrap party for his film/getting-to-know-you party for my film. It was a beautiful day, it had really warmed up and the night stayed that way, warm and mostly pleasant , save for the wind.
My parents had let me use their roof for the party along with getting some beer for me on the way back from New Jersey, which I appreciated but also made me cringe inside a little with uneasiness (a symptom of my arrested development).
They wanted to meet all my friends as they came in to use the bathroom–a fair proposition as it was their apartment–but when I introduced Rob Malone to them, my mom said:
“So this is the Beardo.”
Way to remain incognitus.
Later, I confirmed it easily by just pressing back on the browser on my parents computer to see the blog search for “Feitelogram”. Confirmation.
Which led me to consider.
Like I said, I had thought of the possibility before that my parents could read my blog and though it makes me somewhat uncomfortable, I kind of embrace the whole idea of this blogging.
I consider this place somewhere cathartic, an area for spinning my emotions, experiences, reactions or ideas into something else: a story. Something in writing. It’s what I’ve been doing since I was 6, since the teachers at my elementary school asked me to bring in the story of “My Day”.
But one also has to accept the consequences of such actions–that anyone can be privy to that if you post it on the internet.
However, it’s my opinion as someone who aspires to an art of storytelling, who tries to tell stories of his life, that this is always the way that it will be and I should embrace it.
To be a writer on any level is personal; it is impossible to write what you don’t know, don’t love, aren’t interested in: it is impossible to write from anywhere else but your self. Thus to release writing in to the world is to see yourself trampled upon, be misinterpreted, misunderstood, reneged, rejected and spat on by people you do or don’t even know.
This is not the life I lead it; it’s the one I aspire to.
So what if my parents read my blog. So what if whoever else does to. IF I’m aspiring, trying for a serious life as an artist or a writer, I’ll always be showing parts of myself that might be difficult or private or strange and unwieldy–but ultimately I write for myself, because I feel I have to, and nobody else.
So I left the window up and went back upstairs to the party, where I got too drunk and tried to high-five a rosebush.
I stuck my hand in my mouth as my father prepared the band-aids.
“Well at least you’re having fun.” He said.
“Mwahad.” I said, hand in mouth.