The wolf inside

This was going to be a response to this post by Frangelita, but has turned into something else, triggered by her comparison of us in terms of ambition and our places in the world.
When I was little, grubby, skinnny and a right royal pain in the sedate, middle class* arses of my parents I was a walking, talking stream of demands. Argued constantly, demanded lots of cuddles and toys and as time went on, lots of pocket money.
My father frequently said "you spend money just for the sake of spending it." I knew this was not the case but I couldn't at all explain what I did spend it for. Well I knew it was because I wanted the THINGS. The glorious tiny bits of something or other (whatever I was currently fixated upon) which would briefly satisfy the whatever it was I wanted all the time....most of my life revolved around some kind of vast inchoate WANT. Occasionally it would errupt into episodes of shameful theft (of small teddy bears or tiny bits of jewellery, from small friends) resulting in awful embarrassment and cringing returns.
I partly wish I could point at my (beleagured) parents and demonstrate that they were in some way responsible for this huge unsatisfied appetite. But I suspect it's quite normal for small children to feel like this and most of them just grow out of it sooner than I did. Or find a satisfactory gobstopper. Or whatever. Or learn something I never did.
As I got older I added the urgent and consuming desire to be staggeringly good at something, not just 'quite talented' or 'quite musical', 'quite intelligent' or 'not bad'. And fortunately came upon the discovery that making things was as good as having things. The fly in this ointment was that I couldn't WAIT for the making process nor for the necessary learning process that would enable the making. And the other downside was that I could tell when my efforts weren't right. I made innumerable crap bows, useless arrows, limp sails for unpondworthy boats and tumble down structures. (I did make some quite impressive dams and tiny gardens though) . And the pictures and plasticine models I made were clearly not right. But nearly, Oh so nearly. There is no joy in the world like that of making something right, be it a picture or a house or a machine.

So I was this small passionate person struggling through life with an insatiable growling inside, wolfing down lovely things and gorging on moments of creative epiphany. ** Later disguised as a plump teenager who wasn't very good at making friends!

It did rather cramp my social and emotional style. Far from having a hidden thin person trying to get out of a fat one, there was just this wolf wanting something so intemperately that I had to keep it well under wraps. I never learnt to feel the warm emotions that other people seemed to feel so easily towards each other. For years and years I wondered if I actually had a 'heart' at all. I had no doubt that something pounded away inside me but it didn't seem to do the stuff that other peoples' hearts do.

I had the vague idea that if I were very very good at something I might become famous and that might be rather nice and in some way satisfy the WANT. But I had a shrewd suspicion that a) it wouldn't be as easy as that because b) you have to be quite specific and focussed on something outside an errant wolf in your innards to be good enough at something to be famous for it.
I had another vague idea that I really wanted to be the heroine of all the millions of books I read. Or the hero, since it was a few years before any really interesting heroines appeared in my reading matter. Common sense only applied to this yearning in that witches, dragons and desirable men were clearly in short supply in the real world. As were flying horses and telepathic cats that wanted to communicate with me and only me. I choose to remain open on the subject of unicorns OK?
During most of the years I wandered around with my head in a series of fairy tales, my heart in thrall to the pleasures of creativity and a wolf in my gut, my mother was battling depression and religious crises while my father was battling old age and an unwelcome modern age (he would have loved computers though). A couple of nights ago while sitting on the loo I suddenly thought actually it's no wonder I didn't take to emotional reality, there was far too much of it going on right beside me. More than enough to go round our little family. I've no doubt at all that if I could have talked to my parents after I'd had children they could have told me about their own wolves. But they both died too soon for that. I've never worked out what it was I wanted so much. Perhaps right from the start it was for someone to stroke the wolf instead of trying to feed it.***

I usually end up after one of these lengthy, self-disclosure warblings with some sort of homey 'pearl of wisdom'. I don't seem to have one. The wolf still rumbles on a bit. We've had our moments when one or other of us nearly vanished but I guess she's an integral part of me.
But maybe, look at the clear eyes of a child and bear in mind that the person in there may know at least as much as you do about passion and desire. Or, look at an old, old person and wonder if there is still a wolf in there.

As for ambition and my place in the world, well I never had time for the one and where I am now is the place I've arrived at. It's good enough for now.

Have an apple?


*This is actually a calumny upon my mother who was in fact irreverant, funny and somehwere between some sort of Dutch aristocracy and the descendant of a dutch pirate...well both in fact...but never, ever middle class. Or sedate. I just liked the way the sentence went.
**not sure about epiphany. I think that's what I mean.
***Or maybe a good kick up the arse. Several.