This never gets old for me.
This never gets old for me.
I was talking yesterday with a friend about the daughter of someone we both know who suffers from debilitating depression. He spoke of the undue burden it put on our friend. How she is afraid to leave her child alone, because the young woman is hopeless and it’s not clear that she actually even wants to go on existing. “She just hates herself so much.” Why? It’s not obvious what the source of all this is. Or at least to me, why she thinks life is so awful. I don’t know this girl very well, though to me, her depression is etched clearly across her face, it’s transparent and obvious in her demeanor. I didn’t have to ask what to know that something was off. There is a tired, far away look in her eyes, and when she smiles, she doesn’t quite seem to be present. It’s a familiar expression.
I hardly know her, yet I can see parts of her seem to be existing in some grey elsewhere. I always wanted to give her some kind of reassurance, tell her it was OK or that I understand, even if I actually don’t, and it’s not, and even if I can’t just ask her what or why, because she’s only someone I know in passing. And what business is it of mine to try to save someone?
Hmmm, I think, with a vaguely dispassionate cynicism: “Welcome to your mid-20s, girlfriend.” The grumpy part of me wants to tell people to snap out of it, though I know this is not how it works. It would have done me no good if someone said this to me. And of course, this is dismissive. And not the whole picture. And for many people, not so.
It seems common, yes, that there are a lot of 20somethings who are depressed, though. Young people find themselves caught between childhood and adulthood in some weird purgatory with a lack of any kind of definitive direction, or meaningful and substantive motis. Well, for some of us at least. And sometimes we proceed in a particular direction, but don’t find it fulfilling in the way that we had hoped. Sometimes adulthood can be so boring, so mundane. It can simply seem meaningless, dull, predictable.
I thought about my own struggles with depression and thought about what helps me. How I have to remember to take care of myself in a different way, and how I need to remind myself of what is rational and irrational, and that this too shall pass. How lately, I seem to have been able to put those overwhelming thoughts aside, for now. Today, at least. Because even when I get frustrated with the little things – or the multitude of little things that can pile up to seem like lumbering, amalgamated monsters – I’m ok, overall. My life is not in shambles. It may not be the beautiful and glowing example I sometimes wish it could be, but I am doing ok. Sometimes that is good enough. Not everything has to be superlative or exceptional. I’m grateful for what I have and feel a sense of control over my existence that wasn’t always so. Control, or the vague illusion of it, is often that missing puzzle piece. I think often about how realizing where you have it and where you don’t (there’s usually a fairly substantive weight more heavily on the latter side than the former) can help one feel a greater peace; less of an attachment to struggling and to changing others, or certain outcomes.
I realize that what helped me also doesn’t work as a catch all or a panacea for everyone else. But I think about this quote sometimes and think it holds a lot of weight. “Humility doesn’t mean thinking less of yourself. It means thinking less on yourself.” To think that my every action is so significant, of such magnitude, is a kind of egotism which is as insufferable and self-indulgent as That Guy at the party who can’t stop talking about how overweeningly awesome he and everything in his life is (ever heard my favorite quote? It’s this: “Arrogance is always insecurity.” Same old boring thing.) To over analyze one’s ever doing and deed is a warped kind of egotism as well. To think that one’s life is a burden to others also seems like a kind of egotism, but then sometimes we make it so. And that seems unfair too.
To me, it is often comforting to think that our lives, however small, are just one little drop in a great ocean. Life is very short, yes, and of course, we have to come to terms with this somehow. Yet making the most of everyday is overwhelming and near impossible. To think I made some simple difference in someone’s day often seems good enough. To tell someone I’m having an OK day seems good enough too. OK doesn’t mean subpar, it just means everything is alright, because hey, sometimes stasis is the good news we need. Why must I show you that it’s Great(!) or Super! Or Awesome! Or Amazing! It sets my teeth on edge in a way I find hard to express in the moment, when the grocery store clerk asks me this, and then responds as if I’ve broken some unspoken rule of decorum. When I say “OK” I get questioned because I’m straying from the scripted dialogue in which we’re expected to participate. Come on, I think, it’s just a day. I’m grocery shopping. I have allergies. But I’m alive and I have a job and a home and people who love me. Isn’t good enough good enough? Let’s be honest, as much as I love to cook, it’s still a pretty mundane task, and that’s OK to call what it is “Yes. Just OK.” We all need to do it. Let’s move along, shall we?
On that note, I truly love this piece and think everyone should read it: http://www.utne.com/2008-01-01/Science-Technology/Have-an-Average-Day.aspx#axzz2UWmIwLFg
You can read the rest here.
So: to recap. Writers can’t write anything because they keep looking at the internet, which, as it does with everyone, is making them stupid. If they do write something, no-one wants to read it. If someone does want to read it, they can’t, because the internet has permanently disabled the part of their brain that enables them to concentrate on any text longer than a tweet. And even if they can concentrate, it’s meaningless because they don’t really care anyway. And even if they do care, they’re not paying enough money for the privilege of reading the thing they don’t want to read or can’t read or think they can read but actually don’t understand so what’s the point? We’re doomed.
This is… well, please, just watch it for yourself.
This music is not the original score which accompanies the preview, and so far as I know, this song is not in the movie. It is just something somebody put together for YouTube and it works so beautifully. This is the footage from the original trailer, which is all I have seen of the film so far.
I’m eagerly awaiting its arrival in my P.O. box.
I found this piece this morning and fell in love. It’s always a lovely push to be reminded of why writing is the essential compulsion, a reason for being, a reason of its own, in my mind. It was one of those glorious, beautiful kick in the pants type moments. And a reminder that writing, as an art form as an impulse and a need and a love, does not sprout originally from a desire to get something back from others, by way of pleasing the wider audience. It’s helpful to at least get to the point where you can please yourself with what you write, of course…
Fashion will come at you from two directions, from outside and in. You might start noticing what’s getting attention in the press. You might begin to forget the person you are in order to write and sound like someone else. Alternately, you might be tempted to repeat yourself. To follow the fashion of your own previous work, to stop exploring, learning and trying new things, for risk of failure.
If you try to write posthumously, however, fashion doesn’t apply. You step off the catwalk, ignoring this season’s trends and resigning yourself to being unfashionable and possibly unnoticed, at least for a while. As Kurt Woolf, Kafka’s first publisher in Germany, wrote to him after Kafka’s book tanked, “You and we know that it is generally just the best and most valuable things that do not find their echo immediately.” Fashion is the attempt to evade that principle: to be the echo of someone else’s success and, therefore, to create nothing that might create an echo of its own.
This is so awesome and is a hope-restarter in such a profound way, it brought tears of happiness to my eyes. Three cheers for this wonderful conglomeration of folk for using tax loopholes to free people from debt slavery!
Just in time for the holidays, members of Strike Debt and The Rolling Jubilee recently announced that the campaign raised nearly half a million dollars — enough to buy and forgive nearly $10 million of debt. And just this week, the activists gathered to send out notifications to the unsuspecting recipients of this first round of debt forgiveness.
Most of the collected money will be used to purchase a big hunk of distressed medical debt next month, reports the Village Voice. But as a sort of proof-of-concept, Strike Debt has already spent $5,000 to buy $100,000 of distressed medical debt owed by 44 people in upstate New York.
Gift economy, indeed! I sure hope this spreads far and wide. What a delightful gift to receive!
And for those who are doubters, there’s even an article in Forbes about how it’s legit and how it works. Even if the author’s tone in the article is a tad on the snarky side, he even admits how creative it is, even though he insist that it’s based in conservative ideology. CON-servative! If people helping people is conservative, errm well I guess I am for that?
If you are interested in learning more about this brilliant plan, or if you want want to help buy someone’s debt, you can find out more here.
Using tax loopholes for the common good instead of yet another means for padding the pockets of the obscenely wealthy? That is indeed the happiest of holidays I can imagine.
The job search sometimes leaves me with the sinking, panic-ridden feeling of being lost in an unfamiliar patch of woods when one unexpectedly loses site of the trail as the sun is sinking. Or like stumbling through a house, dreamed up by an unsettled subconscious, full of endless, empty, dimly (though ambiguously) lit hallways, searching for the way out, but feeling lost and lonesome and trapped, so just a little helpless; calling out, fading voice tumbling into empty echo chambers. The proverbial message in a bottle washed up on lonely, remote islands. Panic, panic, fear of failure, desperation!
Queue the maudlin music. Yuck.
Every time I see a photo of or a news story about or reaction to – and they are legion, extensive, and equal levels of gutwrenching and heartbreaking – the massacre in Connecticut, I feel emptied. It’s so raw, so hard to comprehend “why?” when maybe there are no answers for that; not any which are at all digestible, at least, not in the past tense. It only means that we have to define that and move forward; to give meaning to the horror; to plant a garden over the graves, as it were. I mean, we have to make something of it, (don’t we though?) because it’s a big fat shit sandwich, and if you’ll excuse me for the vile metaphor, because I think nothing short of that kind of analogy applies right now, we’ve been munching on it for quite some time now as a nation. Phrases such as “culture of violence” ring in my ears. All of my therapeutic training and study of statistics and literature reviews in psychology courses support this, on many levels. We are overall too unresponsive, too bureaucratically impotent, in a sense; we do don’t do enough collectively to support healthy emotional outlets; we do not role model them as a society; we may pay lip service to these things, and many wonderful individuals on the ground are doing their part, but we do not put our money where our mouth is with tax dollars. Instead, we take it away, over and over and over again. We do not lead by loud enough and large enough example by living lives of peace by showing our children war through a cloudy lens. I don’t mean this does not happen, and I think there is a profound and beautiful, heartwarming move to counter all of this. After all, I worked with dozens upon dozens of positive, brilliant, wonderful individuals when I worked in wilderness therapy, who I believe were waging peace in a sense. I felt as though we were fighting the good fight, and there are rays of hope everywhere if we choose to focus our eyes on it. Read the rest of this entry »
There’s a truth that’s deeper than experience. It’s beyond what we see, or even what we feel. It’s an order of truth that separates the profound from the merely clever, and the reality from the perception. We’re helpless, usually in the face of it; and the cost of knowing it, like the cost of knowing love, is something greater than any heart would willingly pay. It doesn’t always help us to love the world, but it does prevent us from hating the world. And the only way to know the truth is to share it, from heart to heart, just as Prabaker told it to me, just as I’m telling it to you now.
- Shantaram, by Gregory David Roberts
I love this quote, and am taken with the idea behind it. And repelled by it, too. It speaks to me in a particularly loud voice at the moment, since I have seen so many people close to me lose loved ones in the past year, and it has hit me more profoundly than it has in the past. (Can’t 2012 just be over already? As if that will fix things and give us all immortality for free…) I feel as though I am able to witness it, and (regrettably?) take it in at a deeper level. Knowing that (shit)bag of emotions, I also concurrently and paradoxically wish that I didn’t know these things, that these myriad losses were not reality, because they make me sick and sad and yes, I feel utterly powerless; because I always want to do something about it, to help someone feel better and loved and make it OK, even though I realize that is not possible and we just have to accept that this is what life hands us all, that human life is finite, and comes to a so-called conclusion in a number of not always so palatable or desirable ways. Read the rest of this entry »
The coercive element did not pass without notice. Ralph Waldo Emerson observed that political leaders call for popular education because they fear that “This country is filling up with thousands and millions of voters, and you must educate them to keep them from our throats.” But educated the right way: Limit their perspectives and understanding, discourage free and independent thought, and train them for obedience.
Oh, Noam Chomsky, full of such brilliance. And depressing doses of reality. This state of affairs and strategy is indeed anti-progressivism, anti-intellectualism at its finest and indeed, most insidious. This article hits close to home of course, because where am I but closest to the skeletons (well…) of this famed and once great(er) public system of higher education, which is currently crumbling. I recently read, either in Salon or maybe AlterNet, or shit it’s just horrid not-common-enough-yet-knowledge, that the state of California spends more per capita on prisons and prisoners than it does on higher education (the idea is mentioned in the article quoted below, though not specifically in reference to California). Yes, well, look into the whole matter of for-profit prisons and you will see why: corporations investing in the “business” of incarceration, with dividends! War on drugs, anyone? Read the rest of this entry »