I once lived with someone who wants to maintain some sort of disconnect with texts. When she reads books or watches films, she has no interest in commiseration. In fact, she prides herself on being able to predict endings, which stems out of her dislike for uncertainty. She doesn’t have patience for real life in fiction. Interestingly, she is one of the most compassionate people I know. He desire and ability to empathize and understand people is astonishing. In her case, people themselves become her text. She relies on the ability to interact with people and grow and develop with them.
I am not that way. I like to get pulled into texts, I like to feel with the character—to increase my own experience by sharing in theirs. And I love the meditative nature of that relationship. I love the way I can be involved (not simply a reader or viewer, but a participant), then press pause as I stop to consider, then press play again once a new level of understanding has been reached. My social skills, on the other hand, are not great. There isn’t time for meditation in a social environment and I struggle to find a balance between my ever-pressing desire to reflect, and my need and responsibility to interact.
“Never Just Pictures” sticks out to me because it was meaningful to me as a result of being a topic that is of immediate social importance. The same room mate I wrote about before also has major body issues. She exercises excessively and hates what she sees when she looks in the mirror. Living with her and talking to her about this problem that she fights with all her might to be in control of, taught me about humanity in a way that I don’t think a book or film ever could. Taking that background with me as I read this essay created a different emotional relationship with the piece. It appealed to me both as a piece that could expand my understanding and draw me as a text, and as one that spoke to me because of real life experiences.
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