Semi-Stream-of-Consciousness Philosophical Entry

This is from my current journal entry; I had intended a mere record of my thoughts and actions as of late, but my mind wandered further and this came out. This is actually a pretty good example of what goes in my head when I go for walks. I do not claim this to be original, true, right, good, or factual--indeed, I hope to be corrected or debated on where I'm "wrong"--but merely some musings.

 Another late-ish night when I rebel against the coming day's slavery. Yesterday, getting into the car to head to yet another of such toils, I asked "When will this nightmare end?" They say I should be thankful to have any semblance of income, shelter, family, friends, etc. . . . materialism! The very Urge of me is disgusted. But too much complaining. It seems I am to be purged of all my notions, of the world, politics, people, and such. Shall I have been right about anything (major and important)? The more I learn about my rebellious nature, the more it seems in the employ of the status quo, not of sloughing off the bad, but of resisting the corrosions of influence. Yet how gullible I can be! How both? Yet another instance of my bilateral self? So there is much I have held that I am gravely doubting, and much that has repelled me that I am vertiginously considering. What of my original self will remain into the other end? What should remain? The oldest and best part of me, perhaps, but is it a thing to be built upon, or must the dirt be brushed away, the rock pounded off, and the slag be melted away? Shall I be naked or rightly attired? 

This is further compounded by the difficulty of action. It is not the flesh found lacking, for both will and inaction are present in the spirit. The ship's sails are open, but hardly any gust to make it go. Yet, is that analogy correct? For am I right to compound will and desire? Can I will to write a book but have no desire for the writing? Our language certainly allows for the reverse, to have the desire but lack the will. Perhaps the problem lies in a compounding of action and object, of doing and achievement, journey and goal: that is, of writing a book, and the book having been written. The spirit places the end, the desired, ahead of our motion towards it, and so belief overtakes (becomes?) perception, seeming clouds reality, and we congratulate ourselves on dreaming a good dream and accomplishing a job well done, partially because we dared to conceive it, partially because we "know" it won't/can't be done; "why begin till we know that we can win, and if we cannot win, why bother to begin?" In a time when the lowest common denominator is too frequently raised to laudations, when people rest too easily, too quickly, on a complacent acceptance of the things seemingly unable to be changed, merely wanting a better life and wanting to be a better person already therein make one a better person. Thus the desire has become the goal itself, the abstract made concrete, and a certain kind of will emerges, a desperate optimism: we want to be on the other shore, so we imagine we're on that shore, and our virtual-reality addled minds fill in the blanks and we dwell in two places at once, the achieved and the wish-to-be-achieved, by means of an optative link, a Paradox Machine. Indeed, the linear time of our lives is folded upon itself and (perceived) future and (ongoing) present mash together; only such a will power can make our selves from two different times coexist.

But time will not have it, and so we will become fools and float in a gas until we are belched out and dissipated in the air. Linear time is the rock upon which our lives must be placed and walk. We only move along by successive achievements; desire is but energy. Perhaps it must be that we need to find joy (fulfillment?) in writing, in the doing, but only celebrate a book, an achievement, for celebrations are temporary, of a fixed time, but fulfillment goes on. As they say, it's the journey, not the destination. As Oscar Wilde said: 'There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it."

My Religion is Art

One of my favorite shows is the British quiz show "QI" ("Quite Interesting"). I remember the host, Stephen Fry (an idol of mine), telling a story about some new-ish English university, I forget in what city, hiring a marketing agency or the like to help them come up with a name, and twenty thousand pounds later, the agency landed on [name of city] University, University of [name of city], and something else just as banal. I relate this anecdote because, one, I think it's quite interesting, and two, it relates a bit to the topic at hand. Although the university might very well have been clever to think of those names on their own, it took an extravagant journey to discover them; rather, rediscover them, perhaps. Now, another story: a few years ago, I attended my first Passover feast at a friend's posh apartment ("posh"; I've been watching too much BBC) and even though it was my junior year of college, I still hadn't quite become chummy with my peers, so part of the conversation that evening fixed on me. I was asked what I believed in, what my religion was; my answer, at the time: Art, with a good helping of Christian Gnosticism. It's been a journey of almost four years to realize, more than ever, how true for me the Art part really is. I suppose that's a victory for Experience, but the more I live the more I learn that Experience is really an affirmation of what you suspected all along, whether you thought you were right, or even thought, deep down, that you were wrong. Or maybe that's just me; Experience has yet to help me decide which side within me is right on this matter. To the point: I have known all along that my church is the music hall, the museum, the theatre, what artsy place will you, but I was a doubting Thomas, and it took me a detour through Politics and the Normal Life to correct my path.

How awful the Normal Life is! As I mentioned in my last post, I've lived the Normal Life the past year and a half, and it has been about the worst. Perhaps I went into the typical working world with a Good Morning's Hatred of it, but nothing subsequent has cured me of that bad faith. "How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use!/ As though to breath were life." Basically, I want much more.

Yet how much worse is Politics. A couple weeks ago I hung out with a friend, and we had a lengthy debate over politics and the like; I wasn't doing that great a job, and I was a bit surprised to discover how little I cared about it. At the end, as we were parting, I reiterated how much I hated the whole thing ("to hell with the whole damned thing!") and that I needed to set my priorities in order, and nowhere at the top was Politics. And tonight, after seeing so many Facebook posts about the Vice Presidential debates, instead of being interested and eager about it, I am rather tired of it, disgusted even. I am deeply cynical about it all, including my own political stance, and that's no way to live. So now my only stance is Marxist, Groucho Marxist: "Whatever it is, I'm against it!" because, though I still find it interesting, it can no longer be a main interest, not for the good of my health at least.

Art, then, has remained, waiting patiently. It remains one of a few things about which I have never become cynical over. I despair over it, I become angry over it, I get frustrated with it, but I never look at it and feel an emptiness within, as though I were at the end of a lengthy relationship and realized it was all for naught and made of naught. But it is more than an interest; it is, as I said, my religion. I have a deep spirituality and abiding mysticality (new word), and they are never more profoundly plucked than when in the presence of Art. There is more proof of God for me in a good melody, in a fine poem, in a stunning painting--in a single psalm--than in all the writings of Paul.

That's all I have to say really. I suppose I could expound further, but not now; all things should unravel leisurely. I am an Artist, a Musician to be exact, and the saints who intercede on my behalf before God are the works of Art.

Sehnsucht

It baffles me that I should write this, and it may be that I will regret this later, but it would only be in keeping with my recent life. An inexorable urge is typing this out, I suppose.

This past year has been about the worst in my life. Not that is has been filled with disaster; I can't think of a single major tragedy; call it a melodrama in grey. It is a time where only cognition of future hindsight keeps one from being blinded by the fogs of tribulation. There is a Sondheim lyric, "every day a little death," which seems appropriate. My confidence and esteem are shattered. My bitterness and envy and jealousy are energized (the last I was unaware of possessing, to the degree I feel it). The loneliness that has been and will be with me all the days of my life is exacerbated by isolation, for I seem to be a more social creature than I had previously thought; it took losing the constant interaction of school to realize this. Although my shyness constantly improves, the simple task of reaching out even to people I consider friends seems like a chasmic reach, and I stutter, and I spend my time alone, or with one particular friend. Besides the acrophobic nature of the confessional, the task of presenting all the strands coherently is dizzying. It would be easier to puree my mind, my heart, and splatter the mixture on a canvas like Pollock.

Nearly a year has passed since I realized what damage I had done to fund my undergraduate studies. That was the numbest weekend I have ever felt, and I'm not sure I have yet fully recovered. It was a grand start to an intentional tutelage in the School of Fooldom, where I would seek to be reckless in romance, careless, and understand what it meant to give in to the irrational desires; yet I had discovered I had been a fool all along. Compounding the terrors of debt was the lack of income. I have no idea how many applications I've submitted, several dozen is likely, yet I have had only three interviews, two of which were with companies that were last ditch attempts, and the only two who hired. One has obviously proven to be better than the other, yet it is a lose-lose-loser situation through and through. I hate my job, and I lack the luxury of having something meaningful to suffer through it for, like a family, a love, or a way out.

Thus I feel like a failure. First for falling far below expectations. People see wonderful things in me, and I give them Walmart. There are many things I have said I would do: improve my German, read books, write works of words and works of music, etc. Almost nothing have I accomplished. Foremost, though, I feel I have failed at being an emulatable (making up words as needed) human being, a strong one I suppose I mean. I come from stock who have held jobs they disliked, who work to make a living, and do so stoically. I try, but I can't, and I feel weak. I must live what I do, and not just do to get by.

This is all exacerbated by the successes, big and small, of most of my friends and peers. I am rarely happier than when this one gets to continue their education/dreams; when that one falls in love; when another gets engaged, or married; when Friend Such-and-Such attains a wonderful job; when Friend So-and-So gets to travel; when Ms. Someone gets to live in a place to-die-for. (On the flip side, I am rarely more contemptuous and disgusted when a Mr. Nobody gets great recognition that is most undue.) Yet, envy makes this matter equivocal. I have had none of this, and the part of me which cries "Why not me?!" feeds the monsters of the deep, and they wish misery on all. There was one day where I had two parties to attend; I bailed out of both, because I was sick at heart, and because I simply couldn't face all these people whose lives seemed better than mine.

This feeds into my natural propensity for being alone; that is, what I thought was so. Although most of my friends still live in the area, it is tiring being practically the only one who has travel half an hour or more to interact. I am a part of nothing that I feel ties with; I connect with practically no one at work (though I get along fine with them); although I am now in a choir, excepting a few the next oldest person is at least twice my age. Looking at my friends, I see they have friends from all sorts of places, from other college departments, other professions, other walks of life. All my currents friends are from the music department I studied at, or my one great friend and the acquaintances I gain from her social realm. As I said earlier though, I have always felt alone. I can remember being in kindergarten and feeling like there were connections I simply lacked. Though it seems I do yet need more social comfort than I had thought.

So much for a year! I am 23 years old, and I should not feel this way. I am 23, and I should not feel like I have the burden of great expectations to fulfill, and feel like I will fail them utterly. I am 23, and should not feel so alone. I am 23, and should not feel so bitter. I am 23, and should not feel like I have already missed the advantage of the prime of youth; so much time has been wasted on hiding the nature of my love, and now that I am finally in a position to openly embrace the object of it, I cannot, because I desire after vain and impossible romances. I am 23, and the air of death should not be ever around, informing my fears and infiltrating my art. The saddest of this is that you can replace those "23's" with "11's" and "15's" (give or take a year for both) and you would still have the same situation, for, although this currently isn't a breakdown but a strange need to vent some venom, I have had two prior instances of breaking down because the pressure of outward expectations and inward doubts finally blew up.

Again, I don't why I should be flaying myself publicly. Perhaps for pity, which is nice, but is soon outdone by the guilt of receiving it for these reasons. At the moment I feel fine, perhaps nervous, and not looking forward to work tomorrow; there is no desperate haste to post my emotions. Nietzsche once wrote "That for which we find words is something already dead in our hearts. There is always a kind of contempt in the act of speaking." Perhaps that is one reason I have such difficulty with talk and conversation. However, these words above are all written down, and, as Emerson said of Montaigne, if you cut them they bleed (for me). I have already talked them out with some, but they need to be written down to be alive for me outside myself.

Not all has been bad, and it won't remain so forever. The latest, perhaps last, but most important lesson I have learned in my time after graduation is that there is very little for me in St. Louis anymore. I had been fighting it, I think, and it took a conversation with a confidant for me to accept it. I need a clean and decisive break, and so I am applying to grad schools in England. It will be risky indeed, but that is another thing I know I have been lacking which all my successful friends have had, this risk-taking. This is not to say I wish to sever ties with people, but a change of scene is needed; the act has gone on for too long (it has been five years since I have been outside the St. Louis area). I know this is the right thing to do, because I feel an excitement I have not felt for a long time.

Perhaps this song selection is cheesy, but I couldn't give a damn.

It's Not My Party

Parties have always seemed odd to me. Whenever I inform someone that I am going to a party, there is always an awkwardness involved, that the whole notion of me at a shindig is silly. I have known the reason for a bit, but have resisted it, hoping that it was just residual shyness. The truth is, though, I am out of my element at these occasions. The only parties I have really enjoyed are the ones where I'm drunk, either actually or, by happenstance, in a state similar to it. This, to me, is no way to have a good time; perhaps a fun time, but that isn't necessarily the same.

I do not synch well with the conversation; I'm usually not a fan of the music; the food is redundant (oh, a vegetable platter, how wonderful); if there are games or a video, there is usually too much outside chatter (I like to focus on the fun at hand, with only the occasional remark). Essentially, I feel that there is a running joke whose beginning I missed, and it would be fruitless for me to catch up. I am never more alienated than when amongst a group, and the larger the group the more pronounced it becomes. I'm reluctant to make a farewell to parties, but it has become more of an obligation than enjoyment. Thoughts to mull.

Tempus Fugit

Good golly, Miss Molly, it's been a long, long while since last I blogged. Even in my uninteresting life, happenings. . . happen. Just this week I turned twenty-three, proving the Earth still revolves, even if it's not around me. It was a calm birthday; I wore my coat tails for a bit. There was much reflection on the previous year, and it wasn't happy. What wasn't bland was discouraging, and even the good parts were flavored with a manic drive. My love/romantic life is the prime example here. I won't go into details, but some built up steam was released, experience gained, wisdom learned, and the desire for a lasting relationship with a man strengthened. My employed life is another: cashiering at Walmart, part-time, is not the dream, and my desperate attempts at different employment have been miserably unsuccessful. I am in the desert of my life at the moment, and my future self may appreciate it, but the current one occasionally thrashes about at it.

Either that or becomes depressed. I have had plenty of bad days in my life; they come, but then go. Lately, though, I have been having the most severe episodes of what might be manic depression. Just today, up to mid-afternoon, I was feeling rather dapper, then came the question of what should I do next. Within minutes I was a wreck, despondent over doing anything, thinking it fruitless, and so I retired to my bed to embrace Alfred, my stuffed penguin, where I simply allowed myself the time to be miserable. And now I'm okay. This happened last week, though, and I'm worried it may be more than temporary, but it is difficult to tell as, if you return to the above paragraph, I have not had the best year (one of my worst, actually). C'est la vie.

In returning to this blog, I decided to reread all the posts. I stand by everything, mostly, and am relieved that I'm not as stuffy as I feared (perhaps you will differ in opinion). One thing I would like to clarify is my position on God, religion, and the lot. I realized I could seem a strong Christian in much of my writing, but the truth is far more equivocal. Such things are written at a remove from the Real Me, Myself, that is, the person who still isn't quite sure if God is real. They are, instead, written by Christian Hendricks, Artist, who writes from a stance that He exists as a springboard for other matters. The demarcation between the two is blurry, and I find myself frequently taking from both simultaneously.

I think this suffices for the moment, so good night, and I shall try to keep this up.