The Universe Revolves Around Me
Re: Why is Taylor Sirard writing a blog all about herself?
[Content Warning: substance abuse, suicide]
I've explained the subject of this blog thoroughly in the Foundation post, but I have yet to explain why I chose to write a blog that includes my full name as the base of every post. It may be surprising that, despite my name generously thrown in titles, questions, and promotions, the stories vary widely from autobiography.
If I wanted to be brief, I could say that this blog is a response to the in-person interrogations regarding my whereabouts and what-a-dos during travel. It's my substitute for an update to the loved ones I left at home. Instead of a long, rehearsed and worn out response repeated in front of different faces, I simply refer them to this blog. (To those loved ones, this is for the benefit of us both. I promise my written word is significantly more entertaining than my spoken.)
However, if I wanted to be brief in explaining myself this blog would have never been written.
Last summer, when I was living in one place, my friend called to ask if I wanted to grab a beer with him. He explained he needed someone to talk to and I happily obliged. We only briefly discussed his latest turmoil before digressing.
Instead, we talked about the nice weather, dreading the winter, about our Zodiac signs and how he didn't believe in astrology. We laughed about the things that were painful to dwell on. We argued through smiles over things that didn't matter at all.
After some directionless walking, he brought me to a hill overlooking Lake Superior and, "underlooking the rich people up there." He was speaking of the ritzy hotel over the wall we sat against. "But they can't see us!" he added with a tap of his elbow and a wink.
He told me it was his favorite place to sit when he was homeless. It was hidden away but still had a great view.
"I sang my ass off last night," I told him. We were at the same house show the previous night but never ran into each other. He asked if I had been getting better with my vocals. I had and I nodded.
"Let's hit a few notes then!" He boomed the challenge like a ringleader.
He had me, as he often did, peering over the edge of my comfort zone. I jumped and we exchanged vocal warm-ups, casting arching ooh's into the small hill of trees. We rolled our lips with arpeggios and burst into laughter when they stuck together resulting in a lame-trumpet note.
The next day he came by to borrow a tape recorder. Inside was an old recording of my voice over his guitar playing. I could barely open my mouth back then. He was the best musician that ever lent his time to playing music with me, and I am better for it.
I distinctly remember the night he gifted the recorder to me. He was living in a cabin. The only things inside were a baby grand piano, a mattress on the floor, and the delicate décor of beer cans and cigarette ash.
That night he tried to assure me over and over that it would be the last time I would see him. I told him he was wrong. He was drunk and argued back.
It was secret to no one that he was at risk of drinking himself to death, but I still didn't believe his threats. Besides, I have been close enough to suicide throughout my life to understand I was in no position to talk him out of it. Instead, I let him know I was grateful to have him in my life.
When he wouldn't stop arguing, I leveled with him. "When you're wrong and I do see you again," I waged, "I'm going to slap you across the face." At the same time shouting his name with an uncreative expletive in the middle.
"Deal," he agreed, breaking his stern eye contact with a lazy smile. We spent the rest of the night showing each other songs, sitting by a fire we built outside, and talking about our childhoods. He also tried to teach me how to box that night. I put gloves on and we danced around the empty space of the living room. I told him I thought violence was stupid. He told me I was afraid of my own anger.
He had me at my edge again, circling his moving-target palms. The first time my glove made contact, I was surprised to like the feeling. "See, releasing anger is good for you," he replied noticing my silent reaction.
I didn't believe that night was our last together, and I was right, but I did consider what that tragedy would be like.
What I noticed was a feeling of injustice and a vague thought that he deserves better. After which, a memory from childhood replayed in my mind: Sitting in the backseat of my dad's car I hear him say, "You know what's wrong with you? You only see the good in people."
My Dad was right, I do see the good in people. Yet even when I considered the bad in my friend, I still believed he was more than either side of that duality. At the very least, his story deserves to be told. That was the moment a seed of an idea was planted in my mind; "Maybe I should tell that story."
PSA:
Suicidal threats are always something to be taken seriously. If you are in a position to offer someone help or resources for help, do that. This story is an incomplete picture of the whole context surrounding my friend's struggle. It is an honest account of how I reacted at the moment, using my best judgment. It is in NO MEANS a suggestion of how to handle similar situations. I fully recognize that the way I handled the scenario was neither clinically encouraged or morally ideal.
Please call the number below if you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts.
National Suicide Prevention Hotline:
1 (800) 273-8255
[Content Warning: substance abuse, suicide]
I've explained the subject of this blog thoroughly in the Foundation post, but I have yet to explain why I chose to write a blog that includes my full name as the base of every post. It may be surprising that, despite my name generously thrown in titles, questions, and promotions, the stories vary widely from autobiography.
 |
| [Image: Taylor Sirard leans against a tree with one arm with the opposite hand on her hip. Her gaze is direct and her chin is confidently lifted.] |
However, if I wanted to be brief in explaining myself this blog would have never been written.
---
Last summer, when I was living in one place, my friend called to ask if I wanted to grab a beer with him. He explained he needed someone to talk to and I happily obliged. We only briefly discussed his latest turmoil before digressing.
Instead, we talked about the nice weather, dreading the winter, about our Zodiac signs and how he didn't believe in astrology. We laughed about the things that were painful to dwell on. We argued through smiles over things that didn't matter at all.
After some directionless walking, he brought me to a hill overlooking Lake Superior and, "underlooking the rich people up there." He was speaking of the ritzy hotel over the wall we sat against. "But they can't see us!" he added with a tap of his elbow and a wink.
He told me it was his favorite place to sit when he was homeless. It was hidden away but still had a great view.
"I sang my ass off last night," I told him. We were at the same house show the previous night but never ran into each other. He asked if I had been getting better with my vocals. I had and I nodded.
"Let's hit a few notes then!" He boomed the challenge like a ringleader.
He had me, as he often did, peering over the edge of my comfort zone. I jumped and we exchanged vocal warm-ups, casting arching ooh's into the small hill of trees. We rolled our lips with arpeggios and burst into laughter when they stuck together resulting in a lame-trumpet note.
---
The next day he came by to borrow a tape recorder. Inside was an old recording of my voice over his guitar playing. I could barely open my mouth back then. He was the best musician that ever lent his time to playing music with me, and I am better for it.
I distinctly remember the night he gifted the recorder to me. He was living in a cabin. The only things inside were a baby grand piano, a mattress on the floor, and the delicate décor of beer cans and cigarette ash.
That night he tried to assure me over and over that it would be the last time I would see him. I told him he was wrong. He was drunk and argued back.
It was secret to no one that he was at risk of drinking himself to death, but I still didn't believe his threats. Besides, I have been close enough to suicide throughout my life to understand I was in no position to talk him out of it. Instead, I let him know I was grateful to have him in my life.
When he wouldn't stop arguing, I leveled with him. "When you're wrong and I do see you again," I waged, "I'm going to slap you across the face." At the same time shouting his name with an uncreative expletive in the middle.
"Deal," he agreed, breaking his stern eye contact with a lazy smile. We spent the rest of the night showing each other songs, sitting by a fire we built outside, and talking about our childhoods. He also tried to teach me how to box that night. I put gloves on and we danced around the empty space of the living room. I told him I thought violence was stupid. He told me I was afraid of my own anger.
He had me at my edge again, circling his moving-target palms. The first time my glove made contact, I was surprised to like the feeling. "See, releasing anger is good for you," he replied noticing my silent reaction.
---
I didn't believe that night was our last together, and I was right, but I did consider what that tragedy would be like.
What I noticed was a feeling of injustice and a vague thought that he deserves better. After which, a memory from childhood replayed in my mind: Sitting in the backseat of my dad's car I hear him say, "You know what's wrong with you? You only see the good in people."
My Dad was right, I do see the good in people. Yet even when I considered the bad in my friend, I still believed he was more than either side of that duality. At the very least, his story deserves to be told. That was the moment a seed of an idea was planted in my mind; "Maybe I should tell that story."
---
That night at his cabin was just before I left town in my motorhome. Back then, I didn't know how, but I knew I wanted to commemorate my travels. I figured there were other people, like my friend, that had a story to tell. Perhaps I could tell the stories of people I meet being kind, hospitable and generous. I would also be honest about their faults and mistakes. "I'll call it The Good in People," I thought. (Take that, memory of Dad that Dad probably doesn't remember!)
These stories would be objective proof that the outside world and the people in it are not all scary and bad. Writing these stories would open the hearts of my readers, and make me the hero of the new world!
These stories would be objective proof that the outside world and the people in it are not all scary and bad. Writing these stories would open the hearts of my readers, and make me the hero of the new world!
Easy, Messiah. Not only was the idea arrogant, but biased by nature of its mission and limited in its scope. I also firmly do not believe in the concept of objective truth. I can only tell a story subjectively, and a subjective story makes no sense without the subject.
Consider the story about my friend needing someone to talk to. How does it change when I add that we talked about the problems in my life instead? He was the only one at the time to call my bullshit and realize I was struggling. Without even asking, he offered me help that nobody else knew I needed.
I could tell the story of him as a homeless man who wandered around town late at night, but those are insignificant details of the evening he walked around town together. It was shortly before I left town, and I was feeling nostalgic.
He graciously attended my guided tour of personal memories. We passed a patch of the sidewalk "...and that is where I fell off of my bike and onto my face! I was bleeding everywhere," I announced. He listened to every memory I shared. We walked for hours, and he didn't mind even when it started to downpour.
He graciously attended my guided tour of personal memories. We passed a patch of the sidewalk "...and that is where I fell off of my bike and onto my face! I was bleeding everywhere," I announced. He listened to every memory I shared. We walked for hours, and he didn't mind even when it started to downpour.
My subjective perspective of these stories makes a difference. I could never tell his story honestly without including why it matters to me.
With that realization, the blog idea flipped on its head. Instead of an "honest" blog about everyone else, I decided to write a blog about the only thing I could be honest about: myself.
The initial "Good in People" idea lives on in the "Who is with Taylor Sirard?" posts. Instead of writing stories about other people from an anonymous perspective, I write stories of other people interacting with me. No, I don't think the universe revolves around me. Nor do I believe I have an incredibly unique or socially important story to tell. I do believe I can only tell stories through my perspective.
I write a blog "all about myself" because I value the honesty I am able to practice telling stories from my perspective. I don't know if people are good or bad. I know what I experienced and how it made me feel, so that is what I share.
If I were to guess, I think there is good and bad in everything. When I revisit events in writing I get a chance to see the good within bad experiences and vice versa. I may remember an event as beautiful and wholesome, but when I write it out I can see the details that were damaging. What I hope to learn is that when I am having an experience that feels bad, it is also helping me. Conversely, what feels good right now might not longterm and, ultimately, that nothing is all good or all bad.
I write a blog "all about myself" because I value the honesty I am able to practice telling stories from my perspective. I don't know if people are good or bad. I know what I experienced and how it made me feel, so that is what I share.
If I were to guess, I think there is good and bad in everything. When I revisit events in writing I get a chance to see the good within bad experiences and vice versa. I may remember an event as beautiful and wholesome, but when I write it out I can see the details that were damaging. What I hope to learn is that when I am having an experience that feels bad, it is also helping me. Conversely, what feels good right now might not longterm and, ultimately, that nothing is all good or all bad.
---
Thank you for reading my stories and all of my amateur philosophy. Double thank you to my patrons for supporting me in this practice of honesty. If you are interested in supporting this blog and getting access to more stories, check out my Patreon. Sharing this post is another great way to show your support. All ya'll are wonderful regardless.
---
Suicidal threats are always something to be taken seriously. If you are in a position to offer someone help or resources for help, do that. This story is an incomplete picture of the whole context surrounding my friend's struggle. It is an honest account of how I reacted at the moment, using my best judgment. It is in NO MEANS a suggestion of how to handle similar situations. I fully recognize that the way I handled the scenario was neither clinically encouraged or morally ideal.
Please call the number below if you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts.
National Suicide Prevention Hotline:
1 (800) 273-8255
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