Moving Forward in Reverse

It's always a clear indication of how well a post will turn out when you re-write the first sentence fifteen times. With that said, I decided to fool myself into believing that these sentences right here - yes, the ones appearing on the page before and including this one - are actually the beginning of my piece. You see, it's next to impossible for me to dive right into a little article with a witty but relevant one-liner. Rather, I just ramble until I've used enough words that only by the simplest laws of probability does one bear any significance to what it is I plan on saying. Feel free to try and figure out what that word may be, and if you should happen to discover it, let me know (I'll just start every piece from now on with that particular word and we'll be on our merry way). But, now that the beginning's out of our way, let's get started.

(I should start by warning you that the "strange" occurrences which happened to me recently are hardly strange - but I'm not going to.) A strange thing happened to me recently. A few days ago I found myself laying down trying to develop my next brilliant idea. And, like most of the finer philosophers, I chose to watch tv. Flipping around for a little while, I finally decided to indulge my inner-nostalgic and landed on some old black-and-white movie. Making a long story short (yes, I can actually do that), it was a heart-warming tale of manners, relationships, and the general goodness of humankind taking place in a time when men wore suits around the house, and women wore hats at places other than NASCAR events. I realize that it takes more than a pressed suit and dolled-up bonnet to express the values and culture of a completely different era, but it does indeed say quite a bit. Needless to say, the class of Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart, the grace of Loretta Young and Donna Reed, and the golden aura of a golden age left me with a very profound feeling.

A few days later, still feeling very much attached to the films I'd seen, a friend and I talked about belonging to different eras - not necessarily feeling out of place in modern society (I'm not exactly experiencing slit-your-wrists angst), but more or less feeling innately drawn to a different generation, a different way of life. It was recalled to me, after I confessed my fantasy of somehow living in a Frank Capra movie, that life was certainly not depicted truthfully through cinema, especially back then. Yes, naturally this makes sense to me seeing as that I generally wouldn't enjoy watching three hours of some fool's mundane life, but qualities of the times somehow always find a way to shine through. But, was it the purpose of cinema to offer people escapes from a miserable reality? Did women obsess over Cary Grant because men just weren't like that in the real world? I have a hard time believing that every mild-mannered silver-screen star was pure fiction. There just seemed to be an abundant respect that very few people exhibit today, understandably so. But, at the same rate, I can't help but admit that I want to live in a time that didn't really exist. Are we so futile of a human race that treating each other with dignity was once just a Hollywood fable? Considering all of this, it's still true that watching these films induces me to be a better person. I want nothing more than to don my suit, tie, and fedora, call for a New York City cab, open its door for my graceful wife, and travel around town performing acts of selfless charity for others. Something tells me I might be a rarity modernly speaking, and if I have no one else but Frank Capra to thank for that, so be it.

Keeping on the same track, I couldn't escape the thought that perhaps I wasn't born in 1927 for a reason. Besides celebrating my second birthday just in time for an economic meltdown, I might very well be numb to the characteristics of the day. Being so far removed from that era might well be the only reason I can recognize those differences in behavior. In that sense, I'm relieved, but it proffers a strange scenario that seems to reign very true: a vast number of us live our lives wishing for simpler, bygone days, never taking the examples offered by history to improve our lifestyles. Was life better back then, possibly, but that's the paradox. It seems better only because it's not now. Perhaps in sixty years people will watch our movies and emulate our times, wishing they could walk away from their modern problems and into our days of simplicity, but is that the proper way to honor the legacies left behind - I think not. By no means will wearing a fashionably old-fashioned hat do justice to a time we feel deserving of justice, but only by a living example, through modern adaptation, can we attain that. Old black-and-white movies probably weren't reflective of their times. But we can certainly make them reflective of ours.

One Fell Swoop: The Story of Our Lives

In a strangely ironic twist (which will make more sense to all of you later in the post, or possibly not), this entry was born out of ideas I forgot. I still can't remember them. Yes, I'm writing from some phantasmic state of mind that allows me to write things that aren't real (or able to remembered, or both. Or neither. I really don't know). No, that phantasmic state isn't otherwise known as intoxication, although I'm sure that wouldn't help matters. It's more or less a general memory lapse. I struggle with this quite regularly, actually. As a matter of fact, you're all probably familiar with these struggles of mine - they're the direct root of my incessantly long thoughts that seem to go no where but closer to the bottom of the page (much like this). Just bear with me, I'm getting there. Trust me, I am. Really.

Now that I've started anew with a fresh paragraph and train of thought, allow me to delve right into topic-starting mode. What I so concisely referred to above is something like this: every single one of us has very profound thoughts at one point or another. Every single one of us, at that exact moment in time, realizes the magnitude of those thoughts. And every single one of us eventually forgets every single reason that at one point set those thoughts apart. Granted, I'm assuming you all know this in desperate hopes that you're like me in at least some ways, but hear me out (even if you don't care - seriously). Quite often I find myself lying in bed pondering the cosmos, Steve Carell's chest hair, and the meaning of life, in that order. Just as often I'll have a seemingly life-altering epiphany that begs to be remembered. Rightly so. It's not every day that Steve Carell's chest hair changes my life. But in all seriousness, waking up after a long night of heavy pondering and equal revelation to discover you don't remember any of it is mind-boggling, if not discouraging. What happens to the thoughts? Does their immaturity cause their demise? Do not all thoughts begin in such an infant state, developing and maturing into ideals and lifelong guidelines? It appears that diary-writers have it down to a science, but I can't help but feel that if my most profound of thoughts can't survive a night of sleep, then perhaps I'm just not ready to understand them.

It's more than evident to me that my general consciousness isn't the tabula rasa that it once was. Juxtaposed with my physical aging and fast-approaching prime, the apex of my easily-influenced consciousness has come and gone. No longer can I sit in a room and absorb the sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and general ambiance of things and expect them to play heavily into my development. At the same rate, I don't wear diapers or eat smashed carrots anymore either. But just imagine, our basic ability to think comes from a time in our lives when every single thought we had was exponentially profound - even if we weren't capable of recognizing it. It seems that the most drastic changes in all of our lives occurred when the only steady thought we had was "mama and dada". For some strange reason I feel very satisfied with that. Our development is choreographed for a very precise and focused purpose - so we don't have to do it later. Solitary thoughts like the ones I produce while lying on my back at 4a.m. are no longer capable of changing the basic essence of who I am, regardless of how badly I think I want them to. Situations, events, people, places; those are what change us, those are the things that bring us from simple people to mature adults.

Oddly enough, I had no idea what would turn up when I began this piece. I'm certain that at some point last night I had a very distinct message waiting to be shared - but we all know how that goes. I realize now that getting from point A to point B is the only true way to learn, whether it be from the top of the browser to the bottom, or from the day of our birth to the moment we pass. I realize also that there's a very good chance I won't remember thinking any of these things come next week.

Perhaps it’s just as well. I was never crazy about baby food.

The (Fourth) First Impression

I stumbled across some Thomas Hardy the other day (British writer extraordinaire) and it suddenly occurred to me: maybe my negative first impressions of people are unfounded. For those of who don't know, Thomas Hardy's writing is perhaps the most miserable body of work in existence. Not only is it beautifully written, but it's also the root cause of hereditary clinical depression. If you find yourself depressed and have never read a word of Hardy, you can rest assured that someone has, somewhere in your lineage. There I was, painfully reading through select poems, and after removing my finger nails and gnashing my teeth to a fine powder, I got to thinking about the essence of Thomas Hardy, more precisely (or vaguely) people in general. The simplest description of Hardy's view of the world is one of hopelessness, of forlorn regret, and a general skepticism of everything mankind has created. But what does that say for Hardy himself? I'm willing to assume that he didn't walk the streets with black eyeliner and nailpolish, brooding and mumbling to himself. But surely he must have known that he'd be remembered not for his daily life, but for the writings that he left behind. Those writings just so happen to be utterly despairing. Would he feel satisfied with the general assessment of him as the world's largest literary pessimist? Something tells me otherwise.

Ironically enough, I've reassessed my opinions of first impressions. If any of you readers had been exposed to this page during my sonnet-obsession phase, you'd have thought me to be a poetry-loving fairy. Thankfully this isn't the case, but I never really put much thought to that - until now. Writing in particular (and I suppose any means of art) lends itself to forcing very particular first impressions upon the people who come across it. If this is your first time reading an entry of mine, you might very well feel me to be a rambling fool. If this is your twentieth time reading an entry of mine, you might very well feel me to be a rambling fool. Thomas Hardy deserves to be remembered for more than his depression-inducing coma poetry, but history simply doesn't allow it to happen. We then have to take our destiny into our own hands, but don't get me wrong, by no means am I saying that we should all cater to our self-images. This post is just a mere example of who, or what, I am. Next week, next year, and every post in between is but one more example. There's nothing I can do to prevent you from forming your impression of me and my ideas, but it's a rather frightening prospect that we only get one chance to make such an impression. If I never read another Hardy poem, I'm admitting that I'm satisfied with my view of him. Is that really fair? Something tells me otherwise.

To be perfectly honest, this epiphany of mine probably won't change a damn thing in my life. I'll continue living, driving behind ignorant jerks who view the speed limit as a ceiling they should never reach. I'll regard my paper guy has a lonely soul who lives in an apartment with seventeen cats, although I appreciate his punctual service. Some things just don't have the propensity to change, although I'm sure they deserve the opportunity. Maybe that's what Thomas Hardy has going for him (other than a chipper disposition) - a background that can actually be taught, a chance to shed a little light on the fact that he's not a depressed madman. My paper guy, on the other hand, isn't so lucky. He can't inform the world that he's more than an eerie pair of headlights at four in the morning. It's a shame. But then again, maybe it's arrogant of me to assume that he should need such a chance. That could very well be the problem with humankind. No one should feel the need to explain themselves when some misinformed fool (like myself) assumes you cut me off because your IQ equals that of an orange. But, that's the sad truth; we're a judgmental lot, and whether you think so or not, we're all guilty. I'm not sure a concentrated effort to see through the most obvious of idiosyncracies would work at all, one wouldn't think so. In summation, I suppose I'm shooting to be in the position of Hardy - one where the doors remain open, although just barely, on the truest essence of the man himself, not a solitary poem he wrote in 1900, but of the reasons he wrote it, the thoughts he had, the people he loved, the people he hated. We all deserve an equal opportunity at history; whether or not we take it is entirely up to us. The odds are stacked against me, and I might very well fail. But something tells me otherwise.

I've written a couple of little things recently that I've decided to share. Feel free to provide your thoughts and such.

1927-2006

In between the numbers and during the dash, I met a man who spent his whole life trying to make friends. He was of medium build and skeptical of others, from their appearances to their intentions. He told me of us distrust of everybody, of his fears of having nobody. He kept his eyes open all the time for the right sort of person, not only to love, but to befriend, to share things with; a person he could show to the world. He told me how he relied on first impressions, the gut instinct that tells more about a persons style and charm than three-hour-long conversations over coffee. He told me how he trusted himself and only himself. He trusted his judgments, he trusted his persuasions. All the while he spent this time trying to win the approval of himself. I had a hard time understanding this at first, so when I asked him to explain it, he put it along these lines: "I had absolute faith in my ability to judge character, so when I met somebody with whom I might want to make friends, whenever I put the decision to my gut, I could never follow through with the friendship." It made sense. The weeks and months morphed into years, his trust in himself grew stronger. People passed in and out of his life, but mostly out. As he aged, a fear took root inside him. He feared that the people he might choose to befriend, and god forbid love, would be the wrong people. He supported his fickle opinions more rigorously. He quelled the fear of missing out on opportunities at love through loving the wrong people. He spoke less, interacted less. His judgement was used less, he saw no need to exercise its strengths. The hairs of his brow thickened while those of his head thinned. His skin stretched and later relaxed, sliding over the sharp mounds of his cheeks. His bones weakened. His resolve did not. The days got shorter and the nights lengthened. He told me how he rarely saw people at all, and when once he found himself in bed surrounded by strangers, they didn’t know his name. He told me how he lost the ability to speak, for which he thanked the strength of his judgement. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t interact with the strangers around his bed - he had no desire to do so. But he carried with him the sound understanding that his friendship would not be wasted on those who didn’t deserve it. He would wait for the right people, the right person. He then told me how that person never came, how the people around his bed did nothing but frighten and discourage him. They poked and prodded and dimmed the lights. They killed his ambition for friendship. They lowered him in the ground. I can’t help but think that I’m the one he trusts, the one he could befriend. His silence tells me so.

----
Dear, John

He remembered the day, the year. If memory served, the tide would be its highest in twenty five years. The coastal winds swept in from the west, skimming across the surface of the puddled pier. The weed-covered walls of the surrounding cliffs bobbed as the gentle waves pushed in and out, slipping under the dinghies tied to harbor. His home rested atop a hill near the water. A quaint, thatched bungalow, it stood facing the water. Gazing out the window towards the scene below, he held the letter as the sun sank beneath the Atlantic. The temperature dipped and the light waned. He touched the match to the wick, placing the candle on his bedside table. The ink of the aged, yellowing letter cast shadows across the paper as it rested near the flame. Moving from room to room, he tidied and polished his belongings. He placed his folded clothes in a traveling suitcase, closing the latches as he finished. Leaving it behind, he locked the front door as he stepped into the night. Gravel crunched and shifted, long blades of grass shuffled and brushed in the sea breeze. The moon hung above the gorge, speckled and spotted. He stepped over the rocks, around the boulders, through the sloping plains, gracefully floating through the clarity of night. He crossed onto the pier, splashing through the water brought in by the tide. Hovering over the ebb and flow of a small boat, he untied its tether and carefully stepped in. Sitting on the plank as the boat drifted towards the moonlight, he looked upward towards his house, remembered the day, remembered the year, and laid himself to rest.