Note to self: While there is much that is admirable about a pursuit of the dark, there is a more fulfilling reward for spreading the light. Joy may not, by my definition, be beauty, but it is a beautiful thing.

Sunday mornings are the most depressing mornings of the week.

Back to Reality

Tonight was Caitlin Bibb's surprise party. It went well. And, of course, it reminded me of a queer trait of mine when put in such party situations: I get depressed. Mainly it's when the party-goers are conversing, looking for subjects to entertain in lieu of some movie or activity. It would seem, at least to me, that it's one of the more real activites one can participate in. Yet it generally seems to make me depressed.

I have some rationales for such an emotion. I've been deprived of such interaction with other people for most of my youth, so when it finally occurs I'm reminded of how wasted my life has been so far. The entire practice of "hanging out" always strike me as rather absurd and existential (to use those accursed catch-phrases). There is no purpose to it. It is simply "done" for lack of anything better to "do." That's not to say I dislike it or would like to avoid it, but it brings out that "adrift in a sea with no path or direction" feeling.

I look at my peers and think, "These people all have stories, tragedies and triumphs that I'd find quite interesting. I don't know them. I recognize them, I know how they generally act, I know a bit about their families, but I don't know their true histories. I don't know them." I feel like I'm wasting oppurtunities to experience the lives of others. I breached the subject tonight, and while Caitlin seemed enthusiastic, no one volunteered any information. I couldn't think of anything suitable. All I can remember is either depressing/harrowing or comic in a had-to-of-been-there way. I have no "good memories" (aside from parts of last semester), probably because when I really cared I was always stressed or escaping and now I seem to lack the ability to relax and truly enjoy myself. But I want to know the depressing stories of others. I want to know the drama, the type of environment you were raised in, the momentous events of your life. It really intrigues me. I sometimes see seas of people at a ballgame or in traffic or another situation and think, "Every one of them has a story. Every one of them is an epic in the making. It's awe-inspiring, the magnitude of years and experiences all these people much have experienced."

And yet, I don't really know much of anyone. Elizabeth and partially Kelly seem to be the only ones. Perhaps other people don't really have the dramas that I'm imagining. I like to Romanticize conflict, as you may have noted above. But I truly think it's interesting. The events that shape one's life and being are worthy of such epic treatment. Certainly few individual events can make a monumental impact, but stories can tell of a trend or give an example of a pervading mood that helped to mold you. My father, for example, took $20 from me when I was around 5 because I drew on the family vehicles with sidewalk chalk (I wrote ZOO because my sister and I were playing zoo and needed cars to carry food to feed the animals). It was the most money I'd ever had, the culmination of a recent birthday, the bill was the composite of my life's savings up to that point. And he took it. I believe I received a quasi-guilt trip as well. And that's the earliest memory I have of my father.

It's stories like that. The kind of stories that would depress others or seem trivial, but actually prove to be quite influential. I'll give another. I was older, probably 10(maybe a bit younger) , and my sister put a lot of paper in the toilet so when I flushed it it overflowed. I, being the stressed, hyper-imaginative child that I was, considered this a risk to the entire household because the water could theoretically keep coming until the entire house was bombarded by a toilet tsunami. I shut the door, and to add that extra bit of force so the door could hold longer against the onslaught, I locked it. My father was not pleased. To have a toilet overflowing and the bathroom door locked is not a pleasant experience. So I was spanked and then my sister was, "just to be fair." We lived in fear of my father, and that intimidation remains to this day.

Stories like that. They help explain my guilt and fear. I don't blame my father, he's done quite a bit that's been good too, but I'm still distant and, subconsciously, scared of him.

Party killers, I suppose, unless you're drunk and have a desire to get even more intoxicated.

The subject of my novel came up. Caitlin made some crazy comment about me taking her to the Oscars if one of my works was ever adapted for a movie someday. Comments like that seem rather mocking, for a novel is not the sort of endeavor most teenagers take up, and it does seem rather pretentious to believe you have something to say or the talent to say it. With Caitlin I can't really tell, although her sincerity in wanting to be my date seemed to imply she took the subject rather seriously. (This is one of Caitlin's greater fears, for me to write about her in my blog. Hopefully, if she does read this, she won't have a panic attack. No one will think any less of you for this, trust me Caitlin. I think rather favorably about you still hehe). At any rate, again I'm reminded of how far behind I am and how foolish it seems to spend so much time in the pursuit of mediocrity.

It's not a new feeling though. Perhaps it's an example of what another potential cause of me getting depressed at parties. I'm no longer detached. There's nothing else to focus on but real issues like my novel, like not knowing other people, like wasting the "best years of my life." They're the sort of thoughts that would plague me constantly if I didn't focus my life around escapism. When we're playing board games, I don't get depressed. Not only do I have purpose, I also have something to divert my attention. When I'm "hanging out" my subconscious is in full swing.

Hmm. A possibility. I don't seem to get depressed when I take walks, and I'm not detached then. I have no stress, and that's probably the main reason. I can relax. When "hanging out" I feel pressured to make some purpose for myself, be it listening, speaking, or just listening to music. I need to learn to relax. For all my proclaimed apathy, I really do care about matters of emotion and time. I feel so much pressure to not waste oppurtunities I'll never have again. To get my life on the right track and make the most of it. Then I sit on the computer for hours and hours on end. Escaping. I'm addicted to fantasy. Given reality, who wouldn't be?

I'm too verbose, yeesh. If I did train of thought writing for my novel I'd have twice as many pages as I do. Speaking of the novel, I've noticed my writing style is a tad detached itself. I think that's because most of it's in third person. First person always seem more emotional, but less comical. Food for thought. Pleasant Dreams everyone.

Mmmmhmmm! They may say an internet addiction is on par with drugs, and I'm inclined to agree. Staying up til three and getting up at 8 will produce an internet hangover like I've never had before! Oh the joys of escapism. Why you treatin' me like this, baby? I only curse at you because you hit back!

I'm getting delirious. I apologize. Good... afternoon?

Today in Loaded Questions:

Question:"What three adjectives come to mind when you hear the word 'white'?"

My answer: "Not David Sugue."

Ah, Junior Year. You've grown up! We're regressing a bit in our old age, though. I'm remembering shades of my youth. Youth, of course, meaning a year ago. Except this go around I've got my wonderful escape. Oh yes, the fruits of our 35 hour+ binge this weekend were not only unholy, they were downright monstrous! In other words, either I escape or the depression catches up. Joy! Or lack thereof. Oh existentialism, you're a wily foe. You're an old wound that you constantly tear open so you can add more salt for just that hint of angst. Despair, though, is blissfully absent. Count our blessings, eh?

It's really not that bad. Most of the time. I'll be fine when distracted. I think. I think too much. Entirely too much. My game requires no real thinking, so that's good. Mmmm....mindless....

Existentialism, how I Meh thee.

(Note: This might contain some 'spoilers, so if you plan on watching the movie you might not want to read this. This also verges into a rant a whole lot, so it'll be hard to read. Not that that's anything new.)

Last night I watched "Lost in Translation." Guess what? It was existentialist! Not only that, it did a beautiful job. It was existential and romantic, thus my kind of movie. (Let's see if I can make the summary as painless as possible). Bill Murray, the main male character, plays an actor who travels to Tokyo to shoot a whiskey comercial. Of course he cannot speak or understand Japanese, and the culture is quite odd and... flashy. I know if I went I'd be overloaded and burst by all the sensory input. At any rate, he is going through an existential/midlife crisis. He's isolated in a world that literally doesn't understand him, and he feels unneeded (and justly so) by his family that he left behind. The main female character, Scarlet someone I believe, plays a low-mid twenties newlywed who travels with her ditsy husband on business to Tokyo. Of course, he doesn't pay attention to her and has a rather stoned, superficiality about him that makes him rather annoying. She too feels isolated and unneeded.

So, of course, the two meet and befriend each other. I really liked the parity involved between the ~50 year old and someone half his age. He's been married 25 years, he knows how life is. She's been married 2 and is still lost and confused, still learning how it feels to be truly disconnected. I guess it goes along with the "major turning points" of one's life, when things truly change. When you're born, when you start school, when you choose/go to your college, when you enter a "serious relationship", when you graduate college, when you get a real job, when you get married, when you have kids, when those kids go through all the phases, and when you die. In each stage you gain more responsibility and freedom, but you also become more vulnerable and isolated. Disconnected.

It's when we become more disconnected that we question our purpose. At least, those who think about such things and are able to identify it. I think that's where this movie shines, although "shine" for this implies some sort of brightness which is far from the truth. Murray isn't needed. He states as much. His wife doesn't need him, his kids miss him but don't need him, he's essentially expendible. That's how I feel, and I think it's the root of the horrible depression I often suffer. I feel expendible. I'm interchangeable. It's not so evident now. My mother needs me, it's why I didn't commit suicide when I was dead set on it. My grandfather needs me, he's been living a life of isolation and loneliness for over 25 years since his wife died. And there are others, who miss my presence. If I died tomorrow, there would be plenty of mourners. They'd all move on, some would become closer to fill up the gap, some would meet new people, some would be crushed but heal in a few months. Only my parents would really be affected, because other than Carrie and their parents they don't have much of anyone else.

There is the counter-argument. Each life is valuable, a thread in a majestic tapestry. Although one string can be torn asunder, with each thread the tapestry unravels and loses its grandeur. Think of voting. Everyone has to think their vote counts in order to be motivated to vote. It's the same with life.

It's a delusion, though. Each vote is not important. Each life is not substantial Yet I think of Austin and Elizabeth Gilliam from last year, how when they left a silent hole was torn inside me and each day seemed a bit more empty than it had before. Perhaps as people leave your life these holes form. That's what drains the soul through adulthood. They're replaced, certainly. I've found Erin and Lauren and Meredith and Brie and Andy. I've become better friends with Lee and David. And Cory, moreso because Austin left. But I've also become distanced from Rachel, Kelly, Amy, and Elizabeth. There is an ebb and flow. The additions raise you up, the detractions take you down. I don't have the energy to pursue the ones who leave. Therefore, I'll end up with no one. Except my family.

Both my parents live quasi-unhappy lives. My father also feels unneeded. He considers himself someone who pays the bills and that's about it. He's worth more than that, but it's easy to see where he gets the idea. My mother keeps the house running because she's the only one who cares. If she didn't clean or wash I'm rather convinced no one else would. She's been on anti-depressants for years and has a hard time emphasizing with those who are depressed. It's somewhat of a foreign concept for her, I think. My father drinks for his anti-depressant, and while I'm sure he could recognize depression, he's too self-oriented to be of much use (meaning, I ask him one question and he answers it for 5 minutes. I say one sentence and he responds for 5 more. I don't mind, but his idea of communication and mine are a tad different). To sum up, they're who I don't want to be.

Murray and Scarlet's characters are what I don't want to be: unneeded, disconnected, and unloved. At the same time, though, I don't want to be them. I don't want to depend on another person for my fulfillment, because as I mentioned in a previous post, I don't trust human nature enough to believe that other person needs me for a very extensive amount of time. I need constant reassurance. And while it's not so bad supplying it for a month, a year, five years, it eventually wears on you. The need drives the person away. And you're left unneeded again. It's a losing battle. Either way, I end up unhappy. I can find temporary fixes, but there's never a permanent one. If only I was religious, I know faith would give me purpose. I want it to be real, though, and I don't see that as real.

That's the beauty of the movie. Murray and Scarlet, two unloved, unneeded people fall in love. It's sort of an awkward thing, Murray makes jokes and ostensibly doesn't take it seriously, but just by their manners you can tell it means a lot. He's in a cab driving away from the hotel at the end of the movie, after leaving the one thing the viewer thinks might be able to give him happiness. Then, he sees her on the street walking away. He has the cab pull over, he rushes too her, they embrace. She speaks in that tremulous voice where you're trying not to cry, and it's more real and painful than if she did. He whispers into her ear. What is he saying? That he loves her? That everything will turn out fine? That there is hope? They unlock and kiss. In the midst of hundreds of Japanese obliviously walking through Tokyo. He's too tall, or she's too short, but there's real passion in it.

Then, he walks away. He looks back and continues walking. He doesn't stop. He doesn't turn around. He goes home.

That's the tragedy. The beautiful tragedy. They need each other. They could have made each other happy. He's twice her age, and they're both married, but that doesn't matter. Technicalities. Yet he leaves her.

I find it beautiful. Painful. Remarkable. And I can see myself doing the exact same thing. Forsaking potential happiness because it's too hard, too elusive, too uncertain. I can see it for the rest of my life. Coming home from work, grading papers, getting on the computer, going to sleep, doing it all over again. The only way I'd be able to maintain contentment is if I meant something to my students. If I was a part of their lives, an influence upon them. Because I can see myself not being a part of anyone else's. I can see the opposite as well. I can see too much.