Online Identity Crisis

In the past month I’ve taken advantage of Facebook’s generosity three times. The first time I created a page for The Tattered Thread, my blog of almost a decade. The second time I created a page for At the Bijou, my short-lived desire to see and write about every new movie in the theatres. The third time I created Rob Slaven Photography, a pseudonym for my tendency to take photographs of everything in the universe… at least that small subset of things in the universe that I can set a camera lens to.

In the end and with the help of an absurd book written by a comedian, I’ve come to realize that all of this is simply a search for validation: an attempt to find some group of people who will say by way of word or deed, “you’re doin’ good, Mr. Slaven!” Part of me realizes quite plainly that I don’t care what I do. If the masses want me to write, I shall write. If they want me to go take pictures, I shall do that. The validation I seek is not internal so much as it is external. Perhaps in no small way this goes back to my mother who failed to appreciate me no matter WHAT I did. So now I flail somewhat hopelessly in an attempt to fill that blank and yawning void with the approval of others. Apparently the nascent approval of the maternal is more important than we care to admit.

Somewhat recently though, Laura brought up with me a good point. She said simply that what I really needed was internal approval. I needed to be proud of myself and that would trump any vacuous leftovers I might have from my own upbringing. Nobody could fill the void I felt except me, she said simply. And I will not deny that she is right. But the problem is that I am such a relentless taskmaster. To feel even an iota of self-validation I need to create something momentous. I hold myself to an epic standard rather than a modern one. Every non-productive moment that creeps by is a pain, a sin, a terrible affront to the legacy of humankind that brought me to where I am now.

So where does this leave me? I am not, honestly, all that sure. Clearly, there are some fads which need to be allowed to die. I have puttered about with The Tattered Thread for 10 years but the hallmark of that small and unheard-of publication is that you never quite know what you are going to get on any given day. It is as fluid and as unpredictable I am. One day you might be reading about copper-age warfare and the next you might be assailed by a prolix description of the latest vampire movie. While I can’t claim to have, in fact, any following at all, I do have several years of history to live up to. And while the majority of people who wander on to my blog couldn’t give two rats shits about what I’ve done over the past decade I can say with sincerity that I *DO* care. Deeply. Passionately. This is my history. More history, frankly, than I can personally remember. The devoted reader of this open missive to the universe will probably know more about ME than *I* actually know about ME. Having been in your position as reader, however, I don’t honestly expect you to take that much interest. It’s too much. One cannot live one’s own life and consume that of another. It cannot be done. I get that. I’m flattered that whoever you are, dear reader, you have taken even this much time.

As for the photography, as I look back on my history, I realize that I’ve been at that for a solid three years. I look back at those first pictures and I can’t help but feel a pain in my gut. I look back at those pictures from a week ago and I still can’t help but feel a pain in my gut. Some days I look at my output and think, “Damn. I fucking suck at this” and other times I look at my pics and think, “Damn. I fucking rock.” Perhaps this is the nature of any endeavor. I can say without a doubt that I’ve gotten better over the years. Compared to my early attempts at photography, I’m a photographic genius. Trial and error have left their mark, though I’m sure many would rightly argue that the mark hasn’t been deep enough.

The point is though that I have no standard. By the standard of history, I would vanish utterly. I would have tried my utmost in writing, in photography and if I died today there would be none to remember me at all. None. Silence. Yet part of me thinks that if I don’t accomplish more then I will be a failure. I hold myself to some idiotic standard that if I don’t paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel then I should not have even bothered to have lived at all. In my own mind, no matter what reasonable thing I do, I am too small to have mattered. In the end, I am still a small child who looks expectantly up to his mother but is still too small and too inconsequential and too much of a bother to have mattered.

So after all this I can only say that I think the correct thing is to continue on in the two paths I have chosen even if nobody ever bothers to notice. When I am at my best, I can write, and write well. I’ve been told at work that I need to “tone it down,” that my writing is too elevated to actually be understood widely. I’ll choose to take that as a compliment. On the note of photography, I receive precious little feedback. This is either because my output is so terrible as to not justify a response or that people have come to expect excellence and therefore they say nothing. To feed my own ego, I will assume the latter. If the former is the case then more practice is the only relevant remedy. Either way, I will continue to assiduously and continuously photograph everything that comes into my view.

Returning back to practicalities, those of you are interested in my verbal outputs, should pay your homage to The Tattered Thread page on Facebook. There I will continue to push my observations in whatever form they present themselves. Those who wish for more visual media have Rob Slaven Photography to sate their needs. I will not be offended in the least by any who choose to pursue one in deference to the other. Each of us has a muse who speaks to us with most primal force and I will not think less of anyone who listens most keenly to one but neglects the other. As I sit here pondering the darkness of the night on September the 5th, like countless men before me, I can’t help but wonder about the meaning of it all. What will history, a thousand years from now, think of any of us? Are we vapid, squalid mewling infants in the view of history? It’s idiotically broad and rhetorical thoughts like this that make me realize that I have been out of society far too long. Thank the powers that be, whether they be, God or the random machinations of the universe that I start a new class on the 12th. It has been far too long that I have been out of the normal circulation of society.