Of Intent and Action

Although it has been of little or no concern to me as to what the creators of the lovers of the past and present are engaged in professionally (although future prospects may duly suffer an odd inquisitiveness regarding their dear father’s station, but more on that later), it has been brought to my notice that, rather curiously, this has borne a tendency to reflect the imperceptible shift within my own professional aspirations. No, I gasped in horror, when I realized the dire implications of such an allegation. It is a co-incidence, I insisted. And then I laughed to disguise my obvious displeasure at this somewhat slapdash claim. A good liar would never call himself a good liar (because that in effect would render it a rather honest observation), noted someone wise, but really a good liar would lie and be truthful in equal measure to throw the chary off their bloody trail, even when unnecessary (a sure sign of the dubious and the dedicated). The plan was to convey a sense of flippancy and discontent in turn, to detach myself respectfully from the careless, the astute observation, at least temporarily, so that I could ruminate upon it in peace later*.

And then I thought back on certain nights, where alcohol and laughter overflowed, or certain days when some good-natured ribbing broke ice and raised eyebrows. There was a time, I realized where I was the person who held a special affinity for boys with fully-functioning four-wheel vehicles, and declared pink as my favourite colour. It was interesting because these judgments were pronounced based on my actions, rather than intent, which can be as inconsequential (or otherwise) as you want it to be. It is that fine line between manslaughter and murder, between running over that guy dressed in black from head to toe on a cold, impenetrable night, and slaying your husband’s alleged paramour because she does kiss so much better than you, darling. Or maybe I am getting too serious.

In any case, when I was positioned as the car-boys and pink loving girl, my intent had been pre-determined on populist (but there exists a “fine line” between that and popular as well, but we will leave that for another day) demand. And while I protested feebly, at some point, I could no longer remember (or care) if I just happened to have guy friends who had a car lurking in the back somewhere (because I had met them while requiring assistance in finding my way back through the warrens of our precious little hamlet) and if I just happened to possess many pink items (because on my limited budget, the pink items always seemed to be the most reasonably priced), or if maybe I did actively seek out these traits in my men and my merchandise (but would you believe that?). It turns out, that sometimes, action and intent can get so entangled that they begin to resemble an isolated, solipsistic state of being. Indeed, I am what my intentions are, and what my actions will dictate. But most of the time, I am just what my actions-intent (or intent-actions) are conveying to the world outside.

And while quite often, and surprisingly, I find that my intent is indeed being (rather inadvertently) shaped by my actions, I want to take a step back and distance myself from the more invidious of conclusions, because it really, really isn’t true (this isn’t a trick) and because for all practical purposes intent should dictate my actions (this isn’t the court of law). And yes, quite often, my actions will make me deliberate on my intentions in the first place, and possibly even jump forward to make rightful space for my intent to wedge itself in before my action (oh alright future-husband, what does your daddy make?). But frequently, this can be rather bewildering, because really, I quite hate pink.

* and of course, to emulate the tactics of a liar because that’s what they would do to throw you off, but are we clear that I wasn’t trying to be dishonest myself?