So here I am, in the library, where I am prone to be. Studying, or making some futile attempt towards it. And I'm listening to all these new artists. More and more frequently, these artists are my age or even younger. And, I look at my own life. I see that the last seven years have been the same drill: class, study, volunteer at some places (generally to build up my resume to some self-theorized ideal).
As one can imagine, the question pops up asking why I'm choosing to go through this routine (which has become troublingly more and more tiresome as of late). What am I aiming for? Well, the short-term answer is obvious, to get the degree and work in its particular field. But looking at the bigger picture, I have to wonder what I really want out of the few productive decades that I have. And to that, I have no answer. I've probably never really had a solid answer. As far as I can remember, I've been semi-mindlessly following through with my routines relentlessly (a friend whom I hadn't seen in a long time commented that I was always a very routine person). It seems there has never been a very clear, defined goal that I've been working towards.
I mean these existential questions are nothing to me but I suppose it's been a while since I've poked my head above the water's surface to steal a glance of the horizon. I keep saying to myself that once I'm through with this phase of my life that I'll begin living life for myself. But I wonder if that will truly happen. What will that look like? I'm definitely excited to move onto that phase of my life (after spending the better half of decade in the same post-secondary institution). Although I seem to be chained to the same routines right now, I really hope that that will not be my ultimate fate in my next life. I don't want to be a machine.
Well, I guess that's enough of that for now, I really ought to get back to struggling so as not to drown under the weight of these crushing self-imposed waves.
12/06/2012
ಠ_ಠ
The defensive look with the scrunched eyebrows. You know what I'm talking about. That casual look of disdain and disapproval momentarily breaching through the other party's normal social inhibitions. Maybe it's just me being a little oversensitive but that look somehow seems to be finding its way into my conversations much too frequently for my liking.
Ponder and obsess as I may, I still have yet to isolate the precise conditions required to precipitate that cold lifeless look with its piercing eyes. Was it my choice of words? The content of my message? My tone that seems to have become lost in the spaces between irony and insincerity? Maybe it's my tired unengaged look or maybe that shit-eating grin that I greet you with? Well, I have no idea.
But since those instances have been piling up, my desire to make small-talk with effective strangers has reached near-zero levels. And so, I'll have to ask earnestly that you forgive me if I "don't seem to notice you" and don't say hello. It's nothing personal.
Ponder and obsess as I may, I still have yet to isolate the precise conditions required to precipitate that cold lifeless look with its piercing eyes. Was it my choice of words? The content of my message? My tone that seems to have become lost in the spaces between irony and insincerity? Maybe it's my tired unengaged look or maybe that shit-eating grin that I greet you with? Well, I have no idea.
But since those instances have been piling up, my desire to make small-talk with effective strangers has reached near-zero levels. And so, I'll have to ask earnestly that you forgive me if I "don't seem to notice you" and don't say hello. It's nothing personal.
12/05/2012
Hubris
I watched "Into the Wild" yesterday. The rest of the post will be a giant spoiler if you haven't seen the movie, read the book, or are generally unfamiliar with the story upon which those two are based.
It's 5 a.m. and I am awake and I find myself bothered by several aspects of that movie, that story, ...ultimately, that person upon which it was all based, Christopher McCandless. And I mean no disrespect to the family. I realize this must have been a huge loss for them. But, still, I think this story serves well as a precautionary tale, one that others have undoubtedly already stated in the past but I think would be pertinent, if only for my own edification, to work through.
I guess the heaviest aspect of that movie was the suffering, both of Christopher himself near the end of his ordeal and of his family whom was completely unaware of his whereabouts until after the fact. The part that hits me the most is the aspect of self-infliction. From what little I've skimmed on the issue, it seems that McCandless' ultimate demise can be traced to the inadequacy of his supplies and equipment. The last person to have seen him alive was the person driving him from Fairbanks to the trail where McCandless began his stay in the Alaskan bush. Apparently, that person had tried to convince McCandless to reconsider his trip due to a perceived inadequacy of his supplies and equipment, to no avail.
If this is true, I'd hazard to say that a major determining factor of his demise may have been sheer arrogance. And I say this not completely as an outsider to that facet of humanity. It is something of which I have been sensitive ever since my childhood. Whether it's because of misguided actions on my part or that of someone close to me, arrogance seems to be a larger contributor to the hurt that goes around my block (not just me, I don't mean this in a self-pitying way). There's definitely something to be said about having good knowledge, especially when entering into foreign and novel situations. I guess, ultimately, I see the potential of an uninhibited version of myself doing something this audacious and paying the consequences for it and then forcing that payment out of those close to me. And, really, it just scares me that that potential is always there and that that part of me can rear its ugly head at any time after a mere momentary lapse in attention.
There's a photo of McCandless that appears at the end of the film (it's the first thing that comes up if you Google his name), a self-portrait taken sometime during his Alaskan stay. Something about that picture just creeps me out to no end, maybe something about seeing the dead, maybe something about knowing what he'll have to go through between that photo and his unfortunate end. Rest in peace, Christopher McCandless.
It's 5 a.m. and I am awake and I find myself bothered by several aspects of that movie, that story, ...ultimately, that person upon which it was all based, Christopher McCandless. And I mean no disrespect to the family. I realize this must have been a huge loss for them. But, still, I think this story serves well as a precautionary tale, one that others have undoubtedly already stated in the past but I think would be pertinent, if only for my own edification, to work through.
I guess the heaviest aspect of that movie was the suffering, both of Christopher himself near the end of his ordeal and of his family whom was completely unaware of his whereabouts until after the fact. The part that hits me the most is the aspect of self-infliction. From what little I've skimmed on the issue, it seems that McCandless' ultimate demise can be traced to the inadequacy of his supplies and equipment. The last person to have seen him alive was the person driving him from Fairbanks to the trail where McCandless began his stay in the Alaskan bush. Apparently, that person had tried to convince McCandless to reconsider his trip due to a perceived inadequacy of his supplies and equipment, to no avail.
If this is true, I'd hazard to say that a major determining factor of his demise may have been sheer arrogance. And I say this not completely as an outsider to that facet of humanity. It is something of which I have been sensitive ever since my childhood. Whether it's because of misguided actions on my part or that of someone close to me, arrogance seems to be a larger contributor to the hurt that goes around my block (not just me, I don't mean this in a self-pitying way). There's definitely something to be said about having good knowledge, especially when entering into foreign and novel situations. I guess, ultimately, I see the potential of an uninhibited version of myself doing something this audacious and paying the consequences for it and then forcing that payment out of those close to me. And, really, it just scares me that that potential is always there and that that part of me can rear its ugly head at any time after a mere momentary lapse in attention.
There's a photo of McCandless that appears at the end of the film (it's the first thing that comes up if you Google his name), a self-portrait taken sometime during his Alaskan stay. Something about that picture just creeps me out to no end, maybe something about seeing the dead, maybe something about knowing what he'll have to go through between that photo and his unfortunate end. Rest in peace, Christopher McCandless.
12/03/2012
Much Ado About Nothing (and not the euphemistic kind either)
There seems to be a pattern forming wherein the absurdity of the things I worry about hits me like a wave when they are juxtaposed to what goes on outside of my protected bubble.
So I parked at the mall today to use the subway. I parked pretty much right next to the entrance, despite the sign saying it was customer parking only, despite the other sign pleading transit users to park on the upper levels only. I've done it numerous times in the past so I didn't think anything of it. Until I left my car and some dude was eyeing me (no it was definitely not because I was ridiculously good-looking, though I'm pretty sure I was at the time). Some part of me thought for sure he was some person employed by the mall to catch transit users parking in customer only areas so as to enact punishment for those who would dare to violate the directions of the sacred signage. And, as you can well imagine given the preamble, I pretty much was freaking out inside about it all day (also, I'm aware that this is pretty overt paranoia but I assure you that I'm not typically this deranged).
Fast forward to the evening when I am driving home (in the car that was obviously not towed) when I'm listening to a Yemeni journalist who had won the Canadian Journalist Freedom Award last year. One of the questions revolved around the person's daughter who had taken, akin to her father, a keen interest in political journalism. She was said to have frequented protests in the protester's square (I think people refer to it the "Change Square") and report on revolutionist women. The journalist said that though supportive conceptually, he, as a father obviously would, worried something would happen to her daughter, having bore witness to actions that were occasionally used against protesters.
And so, in retrospect, my parking violation, even if it somehow did end up with my car getting towed, just seems completely petty and inconsequential. There are just so many worse things than simple disruptions in my routine. I really should worry less about these potential disruptions. Maybe then the grey hairs that are beginning to accumulate on my head will cede some of their territory back to its once more luscious and full-bodied occupants.
So I parked at the mall today to use the subway. I parked pretty much right next to the entrance, despite the sign saying it was customer parking only, despite the other sign pleading transit users to park on the upper levels only. I've done it numerous times in the past so I didn't think anything of it. Until I left my car and some dude was eyeing me (no it was definitely not because I was ridiculously good-looking, though I'm pretty sure I was at the time). Some part of me thought for sure he was some person employed by the mall to catch transit users parking in customer only areas so as to enact punishment for those who would dare to violate the directions of the sacred signage. And, as you can well imagine given the preamble, I pretty much was freaking out inside about it all day (also, I'm aware that this is pretty overt paranoia but I assure you that I'm not typically this deranged).
Fast forward to the evening when I am driving home (in the car that was obviously not towed) when I'm listening to a Yemeni journalist who had won the Canadian Journalist Freedom Award last year. One of the questions revolved around the person's daughter who had taken, akin to her father, a keen interest in political journalism. She was said to have frequented protests in the protester's square (I think people refer to it the "Change Square") and report on revolutionist women. The journalist said that though supportive conceptually, he, as a father obviously would, worried something would happen to her daughter, having bore witness to actions that were occasionally used against protesters.
And so, in retrospect, my parking violation, even if it somehow did end up with my car getting towed, just seems completely petty and inconsequential. There are just so many worse things than simple disruptions in my routine. I really should worry less about these potential disruptions. Maybe then the grey hairs that are beginning to accumulate on my head will cede some of their territory back to its once more luscious and full-bodied occupants.
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