the sourcerer: Avoiding the herd.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Avoiding the herd.

Not to be confused with Anthophobia (a fear of flowers), Anthrophobia is an extreme, pathological form of shyness and timidness. Being a form of social phobia, it may be manifested in fears of blushing, meeting the gaze of others, awkwardness and uneasiness when appearing in society, etc.

I have spells of... let's call it social anxiety. The mere thought of facing a crowd of strange people makes me withdraw into my undemanding little shell. Last week was one of those times and now I suffer a particular kind of ingrained guilt because I disappoint others, as well as myself.

These were the big guns:

1. The launch of my dear friend Diane Awerbuck's new collection of short stories, Cabin Fever.

Here in my shell my toes curl and my skin blushes with delight as I read Astronomy Domine.

(The title story strikes tender chords and I lie sleepless, wide-eyed in the dark.)

2. The opening of Gary van Wyk's exhibition of photographs, Private Public.

I went to see it yesterday and was happy to do so without any jostling. I see Gary out and about and I've observed how comfortable people are to be photographed by him. He has this incredible gift - in an unassuming and gentle way - of making people totally at ease. The exhibition left me feeling tranquil and content.


Past (Mirac, Waterval, Gifberg) The Photographer's Gallery

Anthrophobia, in some situations, can result in the person disconnecting themselves from human interaction resulting in the use of electronic contact

over direct contact.

Check...

6 comments:

Chris said...: Oh Lil...
I'm sure you're forgiven.
Love you lots.xx; July 13, 2011 at 11:09 AM
Diane said...: That's not the only kind of spell you have, my dear.

Thank you.; July 13, 2011 at 12:49 PM
Petro said...: My simpatie. My dierbare, handsome seun kan net ontspan as hy tussen bekendes is. Ek wens dit was anders. Sterkte.; July 13, 2011 at 6:28 PM
the sourcerer said...: ag dankie Petro, ek kry maar net sulke giere.; July 13, 2011 at 8:45 PM
Amanda said...: it's more common than you would think. i don't think many normal people relish spending an evening with a crowd of strangers, most of us prefer the comfort of familiarity. some are just able to pretend better than others...; July 15, 2011 at 12:08 AM
the sourcerer said...: thanks Amanda. good to think about in perspective.; July 15, 2011 at 10:03 AM

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You could tend a garden at night, only at night, pouring dark water onto leaves, and into the earth, like pouring midnight onto midnight. You could hold your soil-stained hands up to the moon. The stars would gleam on the bottom of the shovel. It would smell the same as a daytime garden - it would smell green, violet, red, white. But come back, in daylight. Come back, to see the colours without closing your eyes.
- Sean Michaels. Accompaniment to the song "Immune" by LOW. Said the Gramophone

Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent. And don't bother concealing your thievery - celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: "It's not where you take things from - it's where you take them to."
Jim Jarmusch (1953- )

You got very hungry when you did not eat enough in Paris because all the bakery shops had such good things in the windows and people ate outside at tables on the sidewalk so that you saw and smelled the food. When you had given up journalism and were writing nothing that anyone in America would buy, explaining at home that you were lunching out with someone, the best place to go was the Luxembourg gardens where you smelled and saw nothing to eat all the way from the Place de l'Observatoire to the rue de Vaugirard. There you could always go into the Luxembourg museum and all the paintings were sharpened and clearer and more beautiful if you were belly-empty, hollow-hungry. I learned to understand Cézanne much better and to see truly how he made landscapes when I was hungry. I used to wonder if he were hungry too when he painted; but I thought possibly it was only that he had forgotten to eat. It was one of those unsound but illuminating thoughts you have when you have been sleepless or hungry. Later I thought that Cézanne was probably hungry in a different way.
Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961) - from A Moveable Feast.