Icarus

Unsolicited advice on how to live until you die.

The Lament for Icarus by Herbert James Draper 1898.

Humans like to categorise ourselves, especially women. Clean-girl, rat-girl, trad wife, feminazi, that girl, this woman. On this platform I read publications on the endless list of stages we are in; we leave one to dive into the next- girlhood or motherhood, sexy or menopausal, goddess divine or victim of patriarchy, woman who has zero fucks to give or who has kept all those fucks well preserved. Ageing gracefully diva or whackadoodle granny, botox or bottoms up. I don’t see myself there; or, more schizophrenically, I can see myself in all of it on the same day, possibly at the same time. I suspect that no blog post can ever capture the essence of what it means to be human. No “tribe” can either, since it reduces our existence to cliched experiences and choices. Words only go so far, and posts can only be so long before people stop reading and just think: what the fuck is she on about? But still, people are so much more complex than any of this. At least I am.

I have been told so many times that mine is a difficult nature. When younger I would get restless in my skin, needing to shed it. I would hear songs with chorus sounding like:

you will grow out of it

you are a butt that cannot find a seat

you will get over it, we all have bad seasons

As I grew up, the melody was the same, but the lyrics varied:

don’t you have enough?

why can’t you be happy with what you have?

you need to get a child¹

As I was packing my bags to leave, parting with an already “made life” for an uncertain destiny and a crappy job, I listened to a song by Manel someone said it was about me: “We have already enjoyed the style you exhibit when you run away. We have already understood that you are a wandering soul that leaves the houses when everyone is asleep.”² I mainly listened because the song is beautiful, but also because I was punishing myself. The song predicted that I would regret leaving. But I never did.

This year I hit 45 and I have come to realise there has never been a time in my life when I had stopped yearning for more. The search is constant, but the struggle has only gotten easier as I have eased into my nature. I have heard it’s immature not to settle. This torment for more, for different, for change I should grow out of. All I seem to do is grow into it. I have gotten so good at spotting when I am done with something, with somewhere, with someone. I know when my skin itches it’s because I cannot possibly live within its confines any longer, when I need a challenge, something to keep me on my toes, anything. And yet, it is not anything; it is purpose and participation in something bigger than me. The sky is the limit. If I could just fly a little higher.

A clear example of how society tells us we are done by a certain age can be found in career development. All I see is advice for young peers; young always meaning under 40³. After that, you are not supposed to want to grow; you are past your prime. It reminds me of the tragically comedic little novel by Muriel Spark, “The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie.” It makes me second-guess myself. Am I that pathetic woman? Will I find myself feeding off the souls of young girls? Good God, what should I do with this yearning for learning, knowing, understanding? When I think too much and the bullshit seems to clog the grooves of my brain I keep coming back to a story about a woman who had started to study Mesopotamia at the tender age of 80, and by 90, she was an expert⁴.

I read the story of Icarus and the interpretations thrown about: Ambition will burn you. Listen to those who are wiser than you! Be cautious! Yeah, no, I have issues with that. They say curiosity killed the cat; maybe it killed Icarus too. We are told that ambition is about pursuing human glory and material success. I see it as this unquenchable curiosity about the world we inhabit.

How can one not know and not wonder?

When thinking about a category I could fit into, all I came up with was “work in progress,” “in the making,” and “under construction,” but none of this fits. I feel whole. I know who I am, my strengths and flaws, my likes and dislikes. I own my triumphs and mistakes, and as I progress through all stages of Ananess and break new ground, I find myself evolving and learning—endlessly curious.

I see myself flying next to Icarus; I do. I see myself trying to reach the sun, all the while feeling my wings melt; I feel myself falling from the skies, crashing into the swell. But you see, I learned to swim, so I do that. What happens then? I hear Paolo Conte singing “Onda su onda” in my ear.

Stupenda l'isola è
Il clima è dolce intorno a me
Ci sono palme e bambù
È un luogo pieno di virtù
Steso al sole ad asciugarmi il corpo e il viso
Guardo in faccia il paradiso

Onda su onda, il mare mi ha portato qui
Ritmi, canzoni
Donne di sogno, banane, lamponi
Onda su onda, mi sono ambientato, ormai
Il naufragio mi ha dato la felicità
Che tu, tu non mi dai

I get up and discard the now useless wings. “Alright then”, I mumble, “What’s next?”

Yours in divine (im)perfection,

Dr. Ana,

Expert in unsolicited advice

Self-loathing

1. Yes, I was actually told this. Please abstain from “getting children” in an urge to “calm down”; you will find their effect is quite the opposite. And, of course, the minor issue of ethics one should not overlook: children are not a means to an end.

2. In the original: Ja hem gaudit de l'estil que exhibeixes quan marxes corrents. Ja hem entès que ets una ànima errant que abandona les cases quan tothom dorm.

3. We all get all these “Forty under 40” lists in our feeds (insert jaded emoji). I google “Sixty over 60” and see all these web pages showing us wonderful individuals over 60 who can serve as role models. These people can tell you about their career path and how they succeeded. I don’t want any of that. I want a list of oldies who started to reinvent themselves, having no fucking clue about their new job, just for the fun of it. People who were in their 70s and were looking for mentors who might have been in their thirties because they wanted to learn a new trade. Where are those lists!?!?!?

4. I read this story in Elisabeth Gilbert’s book Big Magic. I have googled all possible alternatives to find out who Winifred was, but maybe she changed the character's name to avoid people coming in peregrination to her house. Maybe one day, I will muster up the courage to bother the author on this platform to give me the particulars.