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Wising up

I started blogging on the tail end of the longest relationship with a woman I’ve ever been in.  At the time, I was thirsting for self-expression and, in light of the struggle that I had been dealing with, appropriately titled my site “the last great romantic.”  Besides having a nice ring to it and not-so-subtly hinting at my appreciation of Jack Vettriano, it also represented an ideal that I held very near and dear to my heart.

Perhaps out of naivete, I retained hope—however mangled and shredded at times—of finding someone that would prove my point and justify the title of my blog: true love, in all of its absurd, fanciful iterations within literature, music, and the arts, really did have some sort of practical version.  And while it was never as perfect as was portrayed in those beautiful fictions, it nonetheless existed in some instantiation that, while flawed, was actually observable…noticeable.  The kind of love that turned heads and made people jealous—jealous not of one person or the other, but the bond itself and the intense emotion that existed between some two souls.

It has been roughly six months since I became single after enduring what was easily the most difficult breakup I’ve been through.  Between then and now, I’ve had a lot of time to think.  Perhaps too much.  Perhaps way too much.  I changed the name of my blog in some (futile) attempt to dig myself out of a mindset that had simply been dragging me down.  The idea of “true” love—a phrase that still drives me nuts with its connotations, but has to be sufficient out of a simple linguistic shortcoming in the English language—the concept itself simply cannot exist in the world of youthful singlehood, in my experience.  In short, these cultural environs are not simply tough times to be a romantic, but are a veritable minefield for people that are emotionally available, in touch with themselves, and actively seeking someone with similar qualities and approaches to life.

The essence of this mindset seems to be that it is simply unacceptable to really show yourself to someone.  Being emotionally genuine with another is simply setting oneself up for heartache.  We are the generation of a protected nakedness, where we will happily and readily lock lips with strangers and take our clothes off with them once we know their name.  When it comes to articulating emotions, acknowledging the bond that inevitably emerges from such associations, though, we take a gamble where the odds are profoundly stacked against us.  If I go out tomorrow night and have poetry-inspiring, beautiful sex with a woman and follow it with a soulful conversation, I am to remain quiet even if my partner stirs something far deeper in me than lust.  I run the risk of sounding “too serious,” even if my sentiments are genuine and imply no commitment whatsoever.

And try as I might, I can’t seem to function here…in fact, I am aggravatingly dysfunctional.  It’s not that I’m looking and insisting on a quote-relationship-unquote, merely looking for someone that is comfortable not playing mindgames and being upfront about how they feel.  In spite of the assurances of some of my acquaintances that I will one day find someone that appreciates me for what I am, it’s not easy to retain even a shred of hope here.  I’m quickly turning into a misanthrope.  I no longer have faith.  I’m not doing so hot.  The last great romantic is taking his last gasps and, honestly, I’m looking forward to the day when he no longer sits on my shoulder and injects poetic hope into me.

To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub…

Why I read what I read

I finished Infinite Jest in January and, at the behest of a certain someone, recently picked up Thomas Pynchon’s Against the Day.  Once again, I find myself meandering through a lengthy postmodern tome, this time set in a reimagined version of turn of the century America.  There are windships and æther, anarchists and Nikola Tesla, tunnels through the Earth and gnomes underground.

When I reveal the fact that I’ve decided to go off on another trek into a lengthy, labyrinthine novel, most of my friends give me a bewildered look  (or, as one friend calls it the “Oh Jesse” look).  This isn’t unusual.  It’s something I’ve come to expect when I discuss what kind of media I like to digest.  Similarly, I encounter few people who share my sentiments on what makes a good movie.  And my taste in music is appreciated by only a handful of my friends.  My choice of entertainments is eclectic.

Most people respond with cynicism when I discuss my preferred films, books, and movies.  It is the era of the hipster, where people like things because it will make them seem somehow different, disengaged from the hive mind and mapping out barely-explored regions of the cultural geography.  Their disillusion is understandable because, hey, doing things merely because they’re different lacks that sense of self-awareness that has become the essence of hip these days.  The thing is, I really, genuinely enjoy this stuff.

In an effort to disassociate myself from being branded with the scarlet letter of hipsterdom, though, I’ve been trying to get to the root of why, precisely, I enjoy the things that I do.  After a few discussions with my friends, I think I’m getting close to understanding things.

I’ve found that, by and large, people see entertainment as a device that allows them to escape from reality, disengage their mind, and go on a mental vacation.  Popular novels.  Sitcoms.  Blockbuster films.  In the event that I’m faced with such things, I latch onto what I can and start analyzing it, combing through pop entertainment in hopes of stumbling upon an insightful cultural criticism.  If given a choice, though, I’ll opt for the challenging, involved, difficult media that is less common but far more rewarding.

In short, I prefer media that engages me.  Whereas your average person prefers the entertainment equivalent of slurping oysters on the halfshell while lounging a Mexican beach, I like media that makes me feel like I’m harvesting a pearl, prying and working and dedicating my full attention to the matter.  I feel as if I should have to work—that I owe this to the creator of whatever media I’m taking in.  To ask an author, musician, or other artist to strip their work of nuance and subtlety to make it easier for me seems insulting to both of us.

And this is why I choose the media that I do.  It has nothing to do with a deep-seated desire to be the pioneer of cool things, to come across as edgy and avant garde to my peers.  It has everything to do with taking an active role in the process of entertaining myself.  Your average experience on television tonight is the entertainment equivalent of a lapdance—the artist does their damnedest to make the audience feel wanted and desired and the audience passively stands by and waits for stimulation.  I prefer to take a more active role in my entertainment experience, though, and will happily lend a hand in reaching entertainment euphoria.

Rainy day snails

About a month ago Albuquerque had one of those rare weeks where it rained off and on for several days in a row. Besides making everything green, it also made the snails come out.

cannibal snails

One of the snails got stepped on and his friends were eating him. I wonder how knowing that your friends will eat you upon your death changes your perspective on life?

lonely snail

snails on the sidewalk