"consider silence"

whoever ever reads this, i swear i'm not one-note! i just forget it's here until i want to talk about things that strike me. that thing, today, is amber tamblyn's eloquent discussion of her history in hollywood. it's funny how corrosive silence about this type of thing can be; a person feels the effects constantly, they never go away, anniversaries come and go, etc, while you feel stuck reliving things you'd rather not. but without putting too fine a point on it, silence is strategic: a self-protective stance. to make yourself small and quiet is to make yourself uninteresting. careers, opportunities, friendships, access, communities, it keeps going on, they might all pass you by, but none of it is more important than not being/becoming/re-becoming a target. and in the moments you're alone with your thoughts in your new-and-good but ever-increasingly-isolated life, all you can think about is how crazy you feel and how this is all your fault. for obvious reasons i need to write around the clarifying details, but i get it, amber. what i love is her readiness to fit what happened (uh, the title of a book that everyone claims no one wants to read yet is flying off the shelves - even my most progressive - female! - friends vocally want hillary clinton to shut up and go away and die) into a larger framework of oppression and injustice. if we consider that being loud within this framework exposes us to a certain kind of risk, what kind of risk does silence entail? i just finished the latest season of "bojack horseman", which made me cry more than once - in particular jane krakowski's fucking great performance as bojack's grandmother, honey. which, okay, spoiler, this season is very committed to the idea of intergenerational harm and inherited wounds; watching honey be lobotomized by her very mild-mannered and well-meaning husband as a treatment for grief was a gut punch. knowing it happened while she was still raising bea, who was a little girl, puts a lot of pieces into place. we all struggle so much to hold the burdens we've been handed; these are the things we can't or won't speak about.