Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Disclaimer: this post was written in parts, so it isn't as cohesive as it would've been had I not been lazy.
It's the day after my birthday, and I'm sitting on my parent's couch--smiling. I forget sometimes how good it is to be alive, how comforting it is to be around people who love you. With all of the deadlines, the unspoken expectations and the drama of intellectual performance, the real things--the things that matter--often get overlooked. For the moment though, my eyes are wide open, and I am immensely grateful.
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I've been reading a book for the last couple of days (research, for pleasure!) and soaking in the happiness that comes with minor victories. I made it through my first year. It may not seem like much to many, but to me, it proves that I might be capable of something--even if that something is (frustratingly) veiled by time. Even in the midst of the reverie, I can't help but wonder how things will turn out in the years to come. But I'll get back to that in a minute.
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The book I've been reading is Walter Mosley's Blue Light. Now I've only read half of it (some books, like foods, are meant to be savored), but the half I have read has been devastating in the most interesting ways. The book is a serious one. There are moments in the narrative that I have to laugh to keep from falling into a pit of despair; at those times I find my self thinking that there has to be some core connective system that keeps us (humanity) afloat. I mean, can we be so intrinsically "flawed" that we're always teetering on the edge of self destruction? The answers that Mosley provides to this one, fundamental, question hurts at times; turning the page is often like pulling the trigger in a game of Russian Roulette.
I've always heard that a good read causes you to question things, inspires you to re-consider things, pushes you to set aside the accepted (in whatever form it takes) in order to perceive the possibility of an alternative place or space. In some works the place is fantastic; in others, the space is all too real. Either way, the "actual" is only as legitimate as the dots the reader connects in his/her head. Blue Light is so disturbing because the dots are located in some pretty tender places. The more I read the book, the more I realize that the type of fiction it represents (which is difficult to pin down) is about as close to "real" as anything gets. It foregrounds a sort of intellectual and experiential symbiosis that we seem to be careening toward, and, at the same time, presents a pervasive propensity for self-sabotage. It seems to be senseless, but I'm wondering if its not purposeful--which leads me to what I said I'd get back to.
Reading, thinking, and writing about this stuff makes me happy, despite its obviously depressing aspects. I know that none of it is new and that it is essentially the same fundamental struggle that has kept us going through the ages, but sometimes, I think the move toward specialization (I'm speaking about my field, though I'm sure it's a pretty common trend) does nothing more than obfuscate the crap that's as plain as day--the reality that inspires fiction and the fantasy that seeks to change reality. This is why I'm always preoccupied with how things will turn out and why, like Andrea, I'm at a loss as to what I'm going to become; I doubt very seriously that I'll be able to contribute to the incestuous body of bulleted references and regurgitated "original" ideas. At the same time, I love talking about foundational issues that rear their respective heads in every utterance and through every system of social ordering, so I'm sure what I present is bound to fall into the trap of intellectual inbreeding that I've just pointed out. But I guess my way around this is to work on the periphery. You see, I too like to talk about the tangents because they belie connections that a central "focus" is often too busy to acknowledge; they serve as examples of how certain issues create a web of association in seemingly disparate elements that coalesce and counter "centrality." Maybe this post is an example. It's definitely unfocused enough...
What I'm getting at is that the picture of humanity that Blue Light and other such works presents is one that needs to be more than observed. It's one thing to recognize the overarching motifs in a work (the focused, specialized, detachment is safe and not without its interests), but it's something else entirely to understand that the ordered chaos that a work presents is as much a charge as it is a portrayal. I'll stop here, because I now recognize that I've entered into rant mode. But I look forward to reading the rest of the book as much as I look forward to seeing if my attitude will get me anywhere. At this rate I'm looking forward to a cardboard box next to a recycle bin (at least I'll be environmentally conscious) and a nicely framed diploma.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
So, I was listening to the jazz station on Comcast's Music Choice (because being a graduate student in English apparently requires one to "listen to" at least a modicum of the "good" stuff in order to check off yet another box in the "certified elitist" list) and hardcore Reggaeton started playing. I was reading at the time, and it took me a while to realize the switch, since most music, when reading, is really just nicely ordered background noise. When I did notice, I couldn't help but laugh.
Here I was, up to my eyeballs in education debt and trying to figure out how I could budget enough money for food for the next couple of weeks as I read Joyce's Dubliners and listened to a random assortment of sophisticated, energetic, clamor. I love (most) music, especially jazz, but sometimes, in specific situations, it's just sounding brass and tinkling symbols; when the Reggaeton started playing, I realized that this was such a situation.
* * *
I've already made the post(s) about the despair and utter loneliness that this path provides, about languishing under the weight of oppressive expectations, and sipping from the cup of vitriolic recompense--a cup distributed to those who thirst after a spot of recognition for their expended time and energy. I've sung the song, participated in the dance and listened to the tiny violin playing the soundtrack to sorrows of my new life. This isn't about that.
This is about the utter lunacy of it all. Seriously. In the span of a week, I read hundreds of pages of educated people talking about the whole of humanity, a whole to which they pride themselves on having no direct connection. From their ivory towers of, truth, art and love they regurgitate discriminatory axioms coined by enlightened minds of old--hoping that this time, after going through (partial) (re)digestion, the incongruous "axiomatic" bile will, unlike the time before, come out as a well-ordered testament of progress.
I sit (on my room-mates couch) reading books (bought with borrowed money) that go from talking about the importance of "civilization" to pontificating on how arbitrary and meaningless life is. All the while, I become more and more pissed off at how I've let my (apparently meaningless and arbitrary) life revolve around questions and concepts that "say" both everything and nothing. Why is it so hard for people to see that the higher they are above the daily grind of existence, the easier it is for them to be sucked into the illusion of beating the system?
I am not, by any stretch of the imagination a Marxist, but why do we put a premium on an angle of vision that privileges the elevation of a select few individuals at the expense of a vast majority of others? This is an old, old, question, I know. But it seems that we gasp collectively every time something horrible happens as a consequence of us not fully coming to terms with what keeps the wheel of human history turning. Before I fall into the cycle of doom-saying and crazy-talk, I'll stop there.
Just know that now you have the reason for why I study science-fiction and fantasy. In the house of time where running from room to room, through this door and that, only leads you right back where you started, speculative fiction (at least for me) is a doorway in which you are afforded a view of what lies between; it is not a door that you go through, but one you stand in and observe how all of the rooms, at the end of the day, when the various decorations fall to ruin, and the illusion of distinctions disappears, are all the same.
At any rate, I guess I'll get back to reading...
Monday, February 09, 2009
It's starting back up again. After almost two months of break, of wasted time and pages of pleasure reading, I'm getting back to business.
I had a nightmare last night. How funny the brain works sometimes. The day before the official start of the semester, I have a dream in which I'm incapacitated, stuck, trapped, with only my eyes and mind left wondering free. Go figure.
On a lighter note, the more I read, the more I realize why I'm doing this, and why--possibly for shamefully misguided reasons--I feel as though I have something to contribute. We'll see how the dust settles after my first class.
I'm honestly not quite sure where I'm going to take this blog. I started it my freshman year of college, and am now in my "freshman" year of graduate school. I feel like it's changed, as anything meant to chart one's growth over time should. Still, whether or not its present feel adequately portrays where I am now as a person is still up for debate. After reading through old posts, I've been amazing to see how much my focus has shifted--how much my writing has shed the form of a loose fitting parka and taken on that of a well tailored jacket.
Despite all of this, my voice is still foreign to me. I need more practice, as I haven't written much. I don't know if the fine tuning will ever be finished; but I'm hoping that in its progress, it's at least structurally sound. We'll see where this goes. And maybe, for once, I can keep the blasted "books i'm reading" section up to date. I feel like anyone reading those same tombs for as long as this blog purports would probably be a very sad soul. Of course I have a short attention span, so I would most likely feel that way about anything. But I digress, and the madness continues...
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
I'm still in shock; I had no idea that this would happen so soon. It seems that
The world was watching, the nation was hoping, and I was sitting in my socks and boxers with my eyes glued to the television. It happened, and I couldn't help but check the calendar. I was almost positive it wasn't April. Did we enter some sort of backwards alternate-reality vortex? I looked that man in the face and couldn't help but view him as a walking, talking, living, breathing, anachronism, a man somehow misplaced in the grand scheme of things--a man who, despite perpetuated practices, managed to inspire a radical reconsideration of long-held ideals and beliefs. All I could do was stare. It wasn't April, I wasn't dreaming, and we seemed to be comfortably nestled in our normal, non-alternative, universe.
My father voted for the first time, and I can't help but think he represents his generation's final push to make something happen. It worked. I can't relay to you the pride and, deep, fundamental, joy I felt at my father's excitement to cast his vote. All of this is sobering, to say the least. This election has made Neil Armstrongs of us all; we are finally aware of our individual place in the ever-running continuum of time. I'm glad I've lived to witness what could possibly be one of the most significant regime changes in the small history of our adolescent nation and the larger, more considerable, history of our (human) race.
For all of those who have died; for the bodies at the bottom of the Atlantic ocean; for the bones buried deeply in the heart of our southern kin; for the sacrifice, heartache and hardship; for my mother and father, my grandmother and grandfather; for the homeless persons on the street, the lonely souls longingly lingering behind bars, and the dapper debutantes flaunting the fruits of their professional prowess; I look ahead and smile.
It seems that we, in our own small-stepping way, have made another giant leap toward a promising future. Still, I'm certain that we've yet to travel as far and as long as we must for things to be truly as they should. I'm looking forward to the journey.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
This entry started off as a reflective assignment for my Composition Theory class. After finishing it, I realized that it was really meant for here. I turned it in anyway...
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I’ve started to sleep with the light on again. I concluded a while ago that my fear of the dark is directly proportional to the amount of stress in my life. At this point, I’m apprehensive about getting up and going to the bathroom because of the five seconds of insufferable blackness that separates my room and the light switch. I’m not quite sure if that constitutes as some form of social commentary; I’m completely comfortable in my skin, but at times, I fee like it hinders other’s ability to be naturally comfortable with me. So, most of the time, I feel like a beached whale, surrounded by an ocean of well-intentioned individuals. The glaring differences make it hard to see much else, and I can’t help but feel sorry for them. I know that that’s an ironic concept; it both is and isn’t their fault that I grew up in a subdivision of their discursive existence. The similarities are atrociously intriguing, but the differences have a way of putting everything into perpetual perspective. Here I am, creating the beginnings of what might prove to be a ritualistic purging of the non-sequential, expressive, deceitfully telling writing that has marked the communicative growth I have experienced over the years, and all I can think about is the idea that this soul-letting will work to foster a base disconnectedness that will enable me to write more like an academic. I can’t think of anything more classically pathetic.
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I miss the days when I was certain about things; the days when I was secure. Now I seem to exist in a continual state of intellectual disarray. I don’t trust the viability of my own thoughts, and I can’t help but think that this path is one big conspiracy to make me a functioning alcoholic. I never drank as much as I have since I’ve been here, and it’s only been about a month. Talk about your gateway drugs. I’m convinced that the desire to pursue a life in academia is the most significant social anathema in existence. I was already a recluse, and even I have my reservations. (As a side note, that was not initially meant to be a punny reference to the current state of Native-American sovereign territories.) All this leaves me wondering if my tangential, markedly interconnect trains of though will, at some point, come barreling toward each other in what is sure to be the final reckoning of my intellectual existential being. I mean, will I ever be able to avoid the cerebral overload that comes with the assimilation of massive amounts of (oft- disparaging) case studies on human exigency (know, more affectionately, as literature)? For—to hijack, resituate and ironize an oft quoted scripture—my cup runneth over as it is.
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The other day, I genuinely wept while reading Harper Lee’s To Kill a Monkingbird, and I’ve not been alright sense. Looking the way I do, being the way I am, feeling the way I feel, I can’t help but hurt when humanity trades in its individually inspired brilliance for a work-bee like reliance on mob mentality. We possess tools that both damn and save us, and I am torn to pieces by the price we each have to pay for misguided, oft-violent, centralization of human intellectual capital. We chant, “I am legion” as we slaughter each other by the millions, all for a frustrated desire to connect with ourselves and, by extension, each other. It hurts, and the books only serve to concretize the inner turmoil that breeds such contemptible behavior. They give me hope; they leave me in despair. Still, I profess literature, and I must press on. I’m just at a loss for what I’m supposed to do with these feelings. “I could stand a little help.”