Jealousy Is A Map But Mine Is Out of Date

Why do we envy people we don't even want to be?

My first crush at university was a guy called Tiernan. We met at Fresher’s, and shared a bi-weekly philosophy lecture. I was so on the outer, outer orbits of this Irish guy’s life— I was Pluto— but for some reason I had a huge thing for him. He was very normal looking and very tall, and I had spoken to him so few times that I couldn’t even ascribe a personality to him.

But I made a point — a POINT — of trying to bump into him randomly after lectures. When I walked in or out of the lecture theatre, I’d scan the cobblestone campus and try to see if he was in the crowd. This guy I’d basically had two conversations with.

My stomach would literally do backflips at the sight of him. Tiernan, the mysterious Irish man who was the blankest slate a woman could ever want. What did he do? What did he like? What were his deepest thoughts and fears? Who knew! I had to find out.

One of my best friends at university was an agent of chaos called Christina. She was Swiss-Canadian and had lived in 4/7 of the world’s continents. Together we would construct odd adventures and treat student accommodation like a living sitcom.

We were traipsing through the pomously-titled Chancellor’s Court one night, which was one of the self-catered accommodations at university. All my friends lived in this building on the top floor, and the guy that was soon-to-be my first boyfriend lived on the ground floor (not that I knew him yet).

Tiernan lived on the elusive 3rd floor.

Christina and I bumped into Tiernan on a random corridor which we were definitely not supposed to be on (every floor had a keycard, but Christina had friends on most floors). I do believe we shrieked ‘TIERNAN’ which took him by surprise.

Tiernan was very amused by our need to talk to him. I reminded him that we’d met at Fresher’s and shared philosophy lectures. He was not aware of either of these facts.

Tiernan invited us into his dorm, or maybe we invited ourselves in. We sat on the floor and just blabbed for half an hour. This is when I learned that Tiernan was a self-professed kleptomaniac whose biggest ‘get’ was a tuxedo from Marks and Spencers. It was after this feat of fitting room stealth that Tiernan then decided to change his ways and go on a long-term retreat at a monastery. It was there that he decided he wanted to major in philosophy.

Blank slate, no more.

Over the next few months, my fantasy about Tiernan waned. Maybe I knew too much about him now to sustain the magic in my head. Maybe I learned that he just wasn’t the kind of guy for me. One night at a club I bumped into him again. It was when I saw him, several drinks deep, swaying over everyone like a tree, that I realised… he just didn’t do it for me anymore. I was over it. And part of me even thought,

what was that all about???

It’s the same with my old jealousies.

🕵🏻‍♀️ The Usual Suspects

Currently, I’m reading and working through The Artist’s Way with a group of friends. It’s a 12-week program which propels you forward in your creative projects and opens up your perspective on life. Every morning you write 3 pages, every week you take yourself on a dedicated ‘artist date,’ and you read through the book and complete tasks.

One task this week which I was especially keen to do is something called the JEALOUSY MAP.

Julia Cameron (author of Artist’s Way) points out that jealousy is a compass. It’s not an entirely useless feeling that we need to ‘get over,’ it’s actually something that is secretly pointing us towards our desires.

I have long regarded jealousy as my greatest weakness. Only recently have I seen it for the tough-love friend that it is. Jealousy is a map. Each of our jealousy maps differs. Each of us will probably be surprised by some of the things we discover on our own. I, for example, have never been eaten alive over the success of women novelists. But I took an unhealthy interest in the fortunes-- and misfortunes-- of women playwrights. I was their harshest critic... until I wrote my first play.

I found myself bringing up the usual suspects: my ‘inspirations’ — musicians I follow on Instagram. Most of them I’ve not met in person. And the ones I have, I’ve always felt a little intimidated by. Like they’re people that I feel like I have to know. I have to work with them, I have to get on their good side.

I always click on these musicians' profiles for ‘inspiration,’ to see if I can figure out what gigs I should play. What funding should I chase. What should my next move be? These musicians normally come up top of my feed, because Instagram knows how I like to suffer.

In my head, I am gathering information to make me a better person. The reality is, I am making myself feel like shit.

I do this a lot. I do it on a weekly basis, probably. Daily, almost.

Don’t neural scientists say that our brain likes to tread well-worn paths? Like, if you think a thought over again and again and again, you reinforce a groove that your mind can’t help but fall into, because it’s so well-established?

My jealousy of these musicians is a well-trodden path, for sure.

I scroll through images of them wearing jaunty hats and jangling guitars at gigs in small-town England venues called The Whittling Shed at Chutneyfield, or something. They get funding and win competitions and release albums and have shows where they all play support for each other.

They’re great at what they do. They’ve got their community. They’ve got their niche. They’re on their way.

And I am starting to realise that I am so over them.

I cannot be a jangling hat-wearer. I can’t!!!! I refuse!!! It’s not in my blood. It’s not in my musical heritage.

Why am I jealous of something that I don’t want to be?

When I was mentored by someone in the English folk scene in 2020 and got my soul veritably crushed on a zoom call, I was told that a) I wasn’t a very good guitar player, b) I had wasted years of my life, and c) I needed to attach myself to a scene, and the Americana scene was as good a fit as any.

After taking about +100 psychic damage, I took on the advice. I got into the folky scene, I got into the Americana scene. I wrote the right kind of songs, played the right venues, strummed the guitar.

And I grew so much as a musician. I met some amazing people. I have new friends and mentors. I learned a lot and became a better version of myself. But I never felt like I could get up on stage at UK Americana Music Week. Or play a folk night. It just didn’t feel like I’d fit in.

When people ask me what kind of music I make, I say ‘folk’ but it’s not folk. It’s me with an acoustic guitar (folk?) and singing songs about interesting things (folk?) but it’s… not folk. It’s not, I just know that. But I don’t know how to pinpoint what exactly my music is.

Anyway, back to the janglers. My Instagram is full of these people. And it’s of my own doing.

Every time they come up on my feed I feel a pang of ‘I Should’:

• I should be playing the gigs they’re playing

• I should be asking to play support for them

• I should be co-writing with them

• I should physically, literally be them

If I did all these things, then I would be… not me. And, quite frankly, I wouldn’t be a musician that I, personally, would want to listen to.

what’s that all about???

I start unfollowing people. Suddenly, I feel lighter.

The next objective? Find new people to be jealous of, but in a really healthy, juicy and expansive way.

I’ve organised below a dramatisation of this realisation, in a musical style, as it were. It’s a work in progress, so bear with me. But, I dunno, I feel like I’m on to something pretty unique here.

BLACK OUT. ON THE STAGE, A SPOTLIGHT COMES ON AND ILLUMINATES OLIVIA, STANDING ALONE IN THE DARKNESS IN A BILLOWING SHIRT A LA FRENCH REVOLUTION COUTURE. BEHIND HER IS A PROJECTION OF INSTAGRAM, WHICH SHE SCROLLS THROUGH ON HER PHONE IN HER HAND. A HAT-WEARING SONGWRITER COMES UP ON SCREEN.

OLIVIA BEGINS TO SING, URGENTLY

That artist could be me
I knew it at a glance!
This stranger I have found
This man could be my chance!

SHE BEGINS TO SCROLL THROUGH HER OWN INSTAGRAM PROFILE, PACING AND SHAKING HER HEAD.

Why should I be myself?
Why should I sing my songs?
When I have come so far
And struggled for so long?

HER SPOTIFY NUMBERS COME UP. THEY ARE BAD.

Do I cheat….and play pretend?
If I pretend….. I am damned!

OLIVIA STRIDES OUT TO THE APRON OF THE STAGE, SWEEPING HER HANDS

I have an Instagram, thousands of followers
They all look to me.

OLIVIA TURNS BACK TO THE GIANT INSTAGRAM SCREEN WHICH SHOWS HER PROFILE BUT SLOWLY EVERY PHOTO OF HER TURNS INTO AN IMAGE OF HER WEARING A WIDE-BRIMMED HAT.

How can I service them?
What would they ‘like’,
If I am not me?

OLIVIA CONSIDERS HERSELF IN THE HAT

Do I cheat…. and play pretend?
If I pretend, I am daaaamned…..

OLIVIA STANDS AND LOOKS OUT TO A FIXED POINT IN THE DISTANCE. THE FLUTES AND STUFF COME IN AND START DOING THAT *DOODLE-OO-DOO DOODLE-OO-DOO* THING THAT HAPPENS WHEN THIS SONG BEGINS IN LES MISERABLES. THE INSTAGRAM PROJECTION FALLS TO THE GROUND AND MAYBE THERE’S LIKE A FRENCH FLAG BEHIND IT? TOO MUCH? OKAY MAYBE INSTEAD IT’S LIKE THE SCOTTISH FLAG OR SOMETHING. OR A PICTURE OF DAVID BYRNE. THE STAGE BEGINS TO FILL WITH A WARM LIGHT.

Who am I?
Can I condemn myself to wearing hats
To singing songs about tenement flats
This avatar who bears my face
Who tries to jangle in this place
Who am I?
Can I conceal myself for evermore?
Pretend I'm not the girl I was before?

THE WARM LIGHT INTENSIFIES LIKE A SUNRISE. IMAGES OF OLIVIA’S PAST PROJECTS FLOAT ABOVE HER ON A PULLEY SYSTEM. IT’S THINGS LIKE ‘100 TINY SONGS’ AND HER CASIO KEYBOARDS AND LITTLE DOODLES AND NOTEBOOKS AND HANDMADE BRACELETS AND GEOLOGY MAPS

And must my genre ‘til I die
Be no more than ‘acoustic guy’?
Must I lie?

A LARGE GROUP OF PEOPLE START TO APPEAR FROM THE SHADOWS, WEARING FLORALS AND HATS AND CARRYING ACOUSTIC GUITARS. THEY LOOK LIKE THE ENSEMBLE FROM A MUMFORD AND SONS JUKEBOX MUSICAL. THEY SLOWLY START TO WALK TOWARDS THE FRONT OF THE STAGE WITH EXPRESSIONLESS FACES, LIKE GHOSTS FROM A FATAL MICROBREWERY ACCIDENT.

How can I ever face these folky men?
How can I ever face myself again?
My soul is indie pop, I know

I made that bargain long ago
It made me laugh, it made me free
It gave me strength to just be me,

Who am I?

ALL OF THE MARCHING SONGWRITERS BEGIN TO SPIN OUT LIKE LEAVES UNDER A LEAF BLOWER, THEY CLEAR THE STAGE AND THEN OLIVIA WHIPS OUT A COSTUME CHANGE ALMOST SEAMLESSLY, REVEALING A SPARKLY BLACK SUIT THAT SORT OF LOOKS LIKE A MAGICIAN’S COSTUME BUT MAYBE COOLER? WE’LL WORKSHOP THIS BUT THE MAIN POINT IS THAT SHE LOOKS GOOD

Who am I?
O-li-via Ra-ffer-teeeeeee!

OLIVIA SINKS TO HER KNEES IN RELIEF, LOOKING AT THE SKY, IMPASSIONED

I love you, Dr Zayus!

🎤 Okay It’s Comments Time!

1. What types of people are you jealous of?

2. Have you ever had this experience of being jealous of someone for so long that you eventually realise that you don’t want to be them anymore?

3. Who was your weird crush at college/university?

   

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   Til next time! Be good,

   Olivia 🌈✨🏔🎶