Rule 32

It has been two weeks since I've been squatting at my mom's place. She went off to a few distant lands for vacation and I, as the obliging son, offered to look after her place while she was away. Definitely, the past two weeks have passed relatively quickly and I've come to a better understanding of home-ownership. But that's not what this post is about.

I brought both my guitars here with the intention of playing uninhibited, due to the lack of fellow house occupants for whom I am ever volume-considerate. And, since my arrival to this foreign landscape, I can say with great pride that my guitars have been utilized a sum total of zero times. I don't even sing much, which I had probably been looking forward to doing more than fiddling with the guitars. So, here I am, and as I sit in front this giant wide-screen, typing out another block of text, I find there really is no desire within me to be musically active to any degree.

Music factored in way more when I was studying. Having something on while I was doing my mindless studies seemed just enough to drown out the multitudes of thoughts that try to encroach upon my consciousness when I attempt to memorize verbatim words and ideas that, truth be told, mean nothing to me.  Singing also served a cathartic role as I would try to relieve those pent up academically-mediated frustrations with strained utterances with whatever tracks happened to exist in my limited vocal range.

Now that we've entered a less busy phase, I find there is less drive and incentive for me to look to music. I've been through this thought process before, probably last summer, but clearly I had forgotten its significance, as I had enthusiastically been looking forward to honing my musical abilities this summer.

Quite simply, I just don't see any point in developing those abilities. So what if I learn how to strum and sing concurrently or maybe just a few extra obscure chord progressions? I could much more easily listen to those same chords by the original artist. Even if I were to create my own music or make covers that were stylistically distinct from their originals, I just don't think I'd be really into it. And, the thought of me recording and publishing myself for the entire world to see just seems to elicit a slight sense of narcissism, which does nothing but make the entire exercise just a little more distasteful.

There are two possibilities that come to mind as to what's going on here. Either A) I'm just missing the beauty of making music and just need to do it a bit more to understand it or B) there was some aspect of listening to music that was enjoyable, that I've yet to abstract. I'm sure there are other possibilities, but I, as I've recently been discovering, am the greatest of thinkers (but that's something I'll probably write on a bit later on).

The title of this post "Rule 32" is a reference to Zombieland, where the lead actor narrates a set of arbitrary rules, the last of which being Rule 32, "Enjoy the little things". It came up as I was talking to a friend about this very issue and he said that maybe I should stop analyzing the process so much (namely the narcissistic elements that I accuse it of harbouring). But, as I write this post, I guess I've become more aware that maybe it's not so much that my anhedonia is due to my disdain for the process but rather that maybe it was never that process that I was enamoured with (that is, option B).

Beats me...

Vulnerability, addendum

This isn't the second part, just an addendum to the previous entry.

It's not like I'm oblivious to the necessity of some tenacity in this life. I've had the great displeasure of witnessing certain friends and family members enter terrible work environments and seeing their struggle through it. My grandfather fought in the war and when I ask him what his earlier life was like, he summarizes with the single term 捱 (this is Google translate, so um slight possibility this isn't the right one), Cantonese for "endure". Suffice it to say, I haven't brought up that topic ever since.

No, the realities of 捱 have been making themselves known to me, particularly during this school year (see "Ecclesiastes"). Of course, I also say this knowing full well that my life has been, by many orders of magnitude, easier than all my previous generations: food is so easily accessed, a good amount of money secured more than sufficient for a modest lifestyle, no persecution or war. Whatever the 捱 that my grandfather was referring to, I've been lucky never to have experienced it and I might just be lucky enough to never experience it.

These kind of reflections are always positive experiences. Much like that time I had that epiphany facilitated by the famously photographed Afghan girl (see "The problem with first world problems"). Of course, I'm not going to stop seeing the negative sides to things, I still feel that it's an important consideration, but definitely, I shouldn't let these things bog me down as much as I do.

So, that's half of what I wanted to talk about, hopefully I get time to jot down all those fleeting thoughts before they once again vacate the premises, as my tenants are so prone to do.

Vulnerability

Manliness, what is that exactly? As corny as it sounds, one of the things I had set out to do this summer was to refine my understanding of it. Surely responsibility factors heavily into it, that's honestly easy for me, I'm pretty mindful of my obligations and do make an effort to attend to them. But what of stoicism? Certainly there is some place for it? I find that I am less keen at adopting that one. I was never one to shy away from expressing my emotions and it just happens that the frequency of negative ones tend to outweigh that of the positive. Is that a problem?

Our society does not look kindly to whiners. And, I guess I see why that may be the case. Whining may be an expression of an inflated sense of entitlement: "I deserve more than this, why aren't you providing this for me?". In that sense, whining is an act of indulgence and serves only to further the self-centred desires of the whining party. "Stop whining" and "Don't be a pussy" are two immediate quotes that come to mind (Schwarzenegger from Kindergarten Cop and Downey Jr.fresh from Iron Man 3).

Something that holds me back from adopting a purely stoic approach to life, however, is honesty. Of course I'm not equating those who don't bitch about their problems to snake-oil salesmen. But I mean, to omit negativity from our daily discourse, to act as if the problems were less troubling than they really were, it seems a bit disingenuous. And my optimistic outlook deems that we embrace those aspects as much as we do everything else. Surely our lives are littered with trials and tribulation (some much more than others) and it seems only right to recognize hardships as a communal human characteristic.

And yet the only we can really bond over this sort of thing is if people are both cognizant and open to share about these aspects of each other. Not in an indulgently, but in a way that is mindful and respects the degree of one's particular trouble, in a way that keeps these instances in our discourse in order remind each other that our lives are not perfect specimens but, contrarily, speckled with blemishes.

Maybe that's why, right now, I'm just not that sold on the ideal that stoicism is a core attribute of manliness. Keeping it all locked inside definitely seems to be an unsustainable approach, especially with the increasing awareness and understanding of mental illness.

This post originally was going to be me bitching about having no friends I can truly be vulnerable with (hence the title) but I opted not to continue with that because it seemed a bit too indulgent and somehow this semi-intelligible monstrosity was conceived.

It's late, I should sleep, there's a second part but I'll finish that up tomorrow.

Another incoherent rant

All day staring at the ceiling
Making friends with shadows on my wall
All night hearing voices telling me
That I should get some sleep
Because tomorrow might be good for something

I'm talking to myself in public
Dodging glances on the train
And I know, I know they've all been talking about me
I can hear them whisper
And it makes me think there must be something wrong with me
Out of all the hours thinking
Somehow I've lost my mind

I find myself, more often than not, relating to the lyrics of "Unwell" by Matchbox Twenty (the two verses above) ...most prominently the accidental mutterings to myself publicly and the bouts of sleeplessness. Of course, I'm not that off the top (e.g. I don't make friends with shadows nor do I hear whispers) but I do feel the instability creep far too close to my core cerebral functions for comfort.

Obviously, I'm not crazy... just a little unwell? Would that be a fair thing for me to say? Would that just be indulgent and totally unmanly? I guess oftentimes I can be quite the whiny little bitch... add to that my overt naivete and, dayum, you've got a stew going... a stew that no one in their right mind would ever partake of. But, to be otherwise, just seems so foreign at the moment...

Unfortunate, as always...

Ecclesiastes

I think the realization that life is fucking hard is only now really dawning on me. Until now, everything had been pretty much handed to me or obtained with minimal struggle. For whatever reason, only now has the true nature of struggle become a reality for me, before it was always just soundbite I quoted from Ecclesiastes.

I'd be lying if I didn't say I was really, really scared. Decades of toil. The very thought numbs me in a very undesirable way. My heart shudders and falls from the cloistered fortress that had previous hidden me from life's reality.

I feel like such a fucking kid. I'm 24. When my mom was my age she already had a fucking kid, and I'm still here moping in my room like some dumb-fuck teenager.

I guess I don't blame people for not giving a shit. I suppose it's hard enough to focus in order to keep one's own life in order. But, it would be nice if.... well I'm not going to go there.

Someone today said that life is slow. Truly, at times, it seems interminable, moving at a snail's pace. For me, it is now, during this interglacial period between obligations and deadlines, when that definitely seems to be the case.

This post is shit, where is the overarching narrative? Nowhere to be seen. This is why I'm in fucking science.

Greener

The summer is finally here. Why then, do I find myself completely unable to relax? Why am I still plagued with anxieties? Well, there are many reasons and I've grown sick of going over them again and again so let's skip that part.

I feel different. Something in me really did change over the course of the last year. What a fucking brutal year. I don't think I was always like this. There seems to be this persistent weight that I drag around, perhaps all the accumulated self-loathing over the past bit. I've done quite a bit of that in the past three years, if I recall properly.

It's probably up to me to let it go. I don't even think there's anything wrong with me. When I try to analyze my current state (which I am oft to do now that.. well.. that there's pretty much nothing else to do), I get the impression that I only feel the way I do because I've put myself in a box, a very particular frame of mind that is completely intolerant of any perceived mistakes committed by the self. Oh, a sentiment I can relate to all too well.

Maybe it was better that I didn't get a job this summer. I feel like I need the time to pick up my heal my battered psyche, to pick up the pieces of my shattered spirit that have been strewn all across the landscape.

Right now, I think the best thing I can do is just to breathe. Slowly let all those accumulations diffuse out. I must arise from these ashes or else, well, I'd have to start worrying about how I'll get through the next few decades...