© 2010 lefron

Send Me on My Way

I was on my computer today, perusing the internets as I do when I’m bored, and I decided to peruse my computer’s archives for a change. I opened iMovie and explored old videos I’d recorded. I found a video I made last summer, titled “I’m A Rattlesnake Babe.” It’s literally a video montage of me, doing stupid shit (like usual) with a voice-over created by yours truly reciting (in my own transcendental words) the essence of moi. At first I giggled, remembering the moments when each moment had been captured (and giggling at the nonsensical language and cringing “adult-soft-radio” voice I used to describe myself). Then, as the video went on, I felt a little stupid. This video was me, me, and me…it was a video of me, about me, by me, for me, and yet in the montagey voice-over I claim it’s all about you (the universal YOU, not you you conceited weirdo). WHAT? Here, I’ve made this 4 minute long music video about myself to show YOU how great I am, and by the way, it’s not to show you how great I am but it’s because I want to find out how great YOU are. WTF Rachel. I then remembered why I had made the video in the first place, and I felt even more retarded.

Here, take a gander. Allow me to stupidly share with you this video (this is a link, for the visually retarded): I’m a Rattlesnake Babe

Last summer at Bumbershoot I met an incredible boy (who we’ll call Le Champ). He had that hippy, free-loving spirit that makes me melt, the body of a god (I think he was a pro-soccer player in Canada…ohhh sex), and a gaze that said, “hey baby, it’s just you and me.” Fucker. So of course, when I got home, all oogly from Le Champ, I found him on Facebook (my love, my demise) and lo and behold, Le Champ had a youtube channel. Cuh-lick. Le Champ had a “who am I” video. Cuh-lick. Oh shit, I better make one of these, so Le Champ can see how free loving and awesome I am, and then he’ll fall in love and we’ll make babies, and People magazine will call us Youtube Lovers, and to please the crowds we’ll make our very own “Who Are We” video.

Ohhh stupid. You stupid girl. Not that anything in the video is false representation; every part of it is true, all of it is me, and no animals were harmed in the making of it. But I made it on somebody else’s terms, for somebody else’s reasons. So forever, this “who am I” video will be tainted with Le Champ (or rather with my desire to lasso his soccer-body-hippy-love).

Let’s get one thing straight: I Hate (capital H) doing things for other people. Ok let’s straighten that out: I Love (capital L) doing things for other people; I Hate doing things on other people’s terms. Yesterday, my cousin Gillian, who I love more than anything, asked me to go for a bike ride with her. I didn’t want to go. Honestly, I’m afraid of biking. (Which is ironic since I’m biking in half the video.) I have nightmares where I’m biking on a mario kart track (usually Rainbow Road) and I can’t get control of the steering and I’m going down the very skinny half-invisible track so fast that I’m soon to spiral out of control and literally/virtually die (in my dream). I agreed to go, because I love her, but the idea that I was soon to embark on a trip (that would only take 30 fucking minutes out of my life) that I didn’t initiate, decide, or volunteer to do, caused me more anxiety than the actual biking itself.

So why, when I do succumb to acting on other people’s terms/turfs, is it all about me me me? Is it because I like the attention? Duh probably…I’m an attention whore…I wear arm floaties in the summer…I drink beer out of kid’s mugs…I share my personal blog divulging my insane/irrational/irrelevant thoughts with complete strangers…of course it’s because I like the attention. That’s been my only exception to the rule; as long as it has to do with me, I’ll do it on your terms. Because then, I’ve got some little say in the matter; I’ve infiltrated your terms with my subject, and somehow I feel like we’ve made an unspoken compromise. But the satisfaction is short-lived. Because a constant subject can move from term/turf to turf/term, while the turf/terms get to stay the same.

Well that ain’t fuckin fair. That’s a lot of work on my part, alot of subjecting myself to subjective idolizing to which I’m merely an object for subjectification. (I’m sorry, can we pause to applaud that sentence? Usage homeslice! WOO.) It’s tiring jumping from turf to turf, learning rules of people’s terms and applying my subject accordingly and appropriately. And what am I left with? A vast knowledge of someone’s lawn and I’m still just a fucking plastic flamingo. No thanks. I don’t want to be a subject. Whether it’s for study or pleasure, whether you want to throw tomatoes at me or write critically acclaimed articles about me, I don’t want to be a subject. I want to build my own terms. My own turf.

And when I’m ready, I’ll invite you to be my subject. Biatch.

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