I was sitting at lunch years ago, half listening to a conversation between my friends while I was finishing up a short essay. We were discussing how we appear to others, and the usual adjectives were coming up, over and over again: quirky, strange, different, shy, loudmouthed. Then one of my friends said something strange. “Well, Jackie’s a study of contradictions wrapped up in a Dickens novel.” Although at the time I had no idea what she meant, the references have become completely clear to me over the years.
The Dickens novel is the easier part of the description. Although seemingly quiet, shy and reserved, once I open up to a person, my metaphor verbal filter is removed, and I start talking and talking, becoming nearly as verbose as Charles Dickens. At the same time, what I’m saying can normally be summed up into a few sentences rather than the pages or minutes I fill with my words.
I am quiet and unconfident, and loud and obnoxious, all at the same time. I love nothing more than getting lost in the inner city, amongst all the concrete, pollution and crowded streets, but my perfect day would involve a sailboat, sun, no clouds, perfect wind and a picnic lunch at a destination to be found later. I love to read and write, but there are times when the act of picking up a book or pen makes me feel ill. I knit better than some old ladies, but pride myself on being in my youth. I am a sister to some and a friend to others, I give advice but rarely take advice of others. I am a musician who loves to create, either with wood, flowers, wind, yarn or ink. I’m complicated and I contradict myself, but I’m me.
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