The Problem with Love

I wake up this morning and have another of those "shower conversations" where, in my head, I'm talking to the girl, explaining to her why we should be together in another grand romantic gesture. Basically the inside of my head is a romantic comedy, a postmodern romantic comedy, because it's very aware of itself and it's adapting the scene with each new minor epiphany about the source of my delusional idealism.

I think a lot of us do this these days.

Then I'm getting ready for work, and on CNN is a story about violence in the media, about video games and the like, and I'm thinking that everything wrong with me isn't because of violence-saturation, it's because of romance-saturation. It's because of every Matthew McConaughey picture I've ever seen, every Jennifer Aniston film, and all the Lifetime Originals that my mother had on the television when I was growing up.

It's that fucking idealism that every romantic comedy puts into our young, identity-starved adolescent minds.

It's that fucking concept of "the one".

It's those goddamn love songs.

Recently it occurred to me that the reason the divorce rate is so high is because of globalization, because of the internet, and because of our media-saturation. Who can blame us when we get married at 21 and then at 24 notice that our marriages aren't all stellar love-making and swelling string sections like that new Garry Marshall film we saw? Who can blame us for wanting to try again when every website has an ad with a beautiful woman or a successful man promising that we too can meet local singles and find cinematic love?

Behind every church door is Katharine Ross waiting to run away with you. With the right words, you too can get back the one that got away, and just in time for your happy ending.

We're just one jump cut away from blissful reunion.

We're just one glorious apology away from the rest of our lives.

So it is with all of these thoughts that I come to the conclusion that at least as many of our society's problems can be attributed to our portrayal of love in the media as to our portrayal of violence. Yet no one seems to notice.

It's like we're all idealists, and none of us can truly destroy our own belief in happily-ever-afters. Even after our latest heartbreak has forced the gleam from our eyes, we still live our lives waiting for someone to prove us wrong, for some persistent young musician to melt our frozen hearts and teach us how to dance.

And maybe it's not at all like this.

As a writer, it's an excess of empathy that fuels my life, that enables me to get inside the mind of every character I write, and it's this same excess of empathy that allowed me to see reflections of my future in every romantic comedy my mother watched in the living room when I was growing up. It's this empathy that made me put myself in the protagonist's shoes in every Lifetime special.

And maybe it's just me. While I would say my mother had a stronger hand in raising me, my parents are still together and still happy, and in the suburbs of America, they took great pains to impress upon me that love and happiness are very much alive.

But I know about the Empathic Civilization. I know that our society as a whole is experiencing more and more empathy in each generation, and I think this complex extends to a lot of us. I haven't been on reddit long, but I've seen the depth of intellect and empathy that exists here, so I think that a lot of you will be able to relate.

I don't think there's really anything to be done about this particular aspect of the Postmodern era, because like any proper addict, I've seen the ill effects of this delusion and have now weighed the cost, but I find myself still wanting to believe.

I find myself wanting the guy to get the girl every time I write a story.

I find myself believing in and waiting for this final triumph that I've only ever experienced vicariously in the dark of the cinema and in the warmth of the living room.

Water and Fear

And this is where shit gets weird.

You walk into a room and everyone that you're sure was talking about you, now they're all staring at their hands. Everyone is terrified of something, and you wonder if they can sense your resentment, if they're picking up on your animosity.

These clones.

These sad, lifeless husks.

Maybe you have Capgras delusion.

Maybe you can finally get committed and stop worrying.

You should be so lucky.

So you wake up another morning and prepare yourself for your own hatred and arrogance by scanning your DVD collection or your book collection and confirming that yes, you do have better taste than anyone at film school.

You are the next Stanley Kubrick.

You are the next Charlie Kaufman.

But then this depresses the shit out of you, because you've seen Adaptation, you know what a sad, neurotic motherfucker Charlie Kaufman is.

Are you prepared to choose between spending the rest of your brilliant life either heavily medicated and emotionless or in the perpetual grip of your own depression and anxiety?

Are you prepared to end your life at the age of twenty-seven like so many of your artistic influences?

Oh, stop being so melodramatic.

You are not the projected images of your childhood.

You are not the collected portrayals of one hundred years of cinematic experiences.

You do not have to die in slow motion.

You do not have a symphonic score.

You are a person, carbon-based and warm-blooded.

You are various cells all running the same genetic script.

You are mostly water and fear.

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Water and Fear.

The Eye Exam (Part 1)

I write in cliches.
I write this down because I think it will be a clever opening line.
I write about writing this down, and then decide to remove it, but then I think I'll probably put this back in at some stage in the process, thinking that this is all important, that this sets the stage of my mind, thinking Oh, how very Henry Miller I'm being, and now you, having read the opening, you've come to the conclusion that yes, I did put it back in and now you're trapped, wondering Oh, what will come next from this scattered and cheeky narrator, wondering if you can stand this level of self-awareness and posturing for whatever ungodly amount of pages I have surely rambled upon (315, thank you, publisher's proof), and if you're perusing just the first page in some bookstore, seriously, just put it down; it only gets worse, and if you've already bought it, well, maybe you should make better life decisions, maybe I should have warned you, but it's too late now, the store's closed until at the earliest 9am, the bath water is hot and the candles are lit, so settle in, it's gonna be fun, for me at least.
Oh, how very post-modern.
I abandon writing tonight.
I'm way too fucking stoned for this.
It lasts three days, the abandonment not the stonedness, only because I have better things to do than sit alone and nothing at all to say.
I'm in Wal-Mart having an eye exam.
Oh, this is going to jump around a lot.
Fair warning.
I'm sorry?
I'm in Wal-Mart because I'm broke as shit and their eye exams are twenty bucks cheaper than anywhere else and my prescription is expired and I'm down to my last murky, worn pair of contact lenses.
I won't wear my glasses outside the house because I think maybe I look foolish.
I won't wear my glasses outside the house because I can't wear sunglasses with them, and well shit, sunglasses are fucking cool.
The optometrist's name is Richard Slick.
No joke.
When he's out of the room, I take a photo on my phone of his framed degree, because I have an exceptionally cynical mind and expect everyone else to as well, so I like to always have proof of everything I might later relate to a friend.
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Proof of Everything.

Well Enough Alone

God, it's been a long time. I know you'll never read this, but there are a few things I have to say. I wanted to write them in a song, but I can't make any of them rhyme or fit into nice lyrical patterns, but I have to get them out.

I hate that my heart freezes up every time you mention another guy's name that I don't recognize. I hate that every time I'm with you, you burrow a hole deep into my heart, and that as soon as you leave it feels like it'll never close. I hate that you're moving, even though I know it's probably the best thing that can happen for me, because I probably won't ever see you again if you go. I hate that I feel this all over again for a brand new girl in the same old city.

I think it's probably time for me to leave here as well.

Oh, Me.

Man, I'm shitty. I'm sick. It's raining fucking loads. I have no idea what's going on with this girl. I can't concentrate at work, and I know they're going to want to finish this goddamn duck poem. Last week I thought it was pretty good. This week I'm like, "Blaargh, it's too goddamned happy."

I just want to sit here at my computer and brood. Well, really I just want to call Paige and leave work early to meet up with her somewhere. I don't know. She's one of those girls with a million friends. It's really bumming me out. Everywhere we go, she knows someone, and she makes plans with them. then I think, "Wait. Am I just one of those guys that's always trying to make plans with this girl? Am I gonna end up being one of those guys that falls in love with her and then just hangs around forever waiting for her to want to be in a relationship?" UGH.

This is the worst blog entry of all time. It's like fucking high school. I'll probably delete it.

She wants me to direct another film and put her in it. I do too, but I'm doing my best to give her the run around. I don't want her to only like me because I'm advantageous. Then again, I am advantageous and I realize that that's a good way in at least. I'm such a sucker.

Well, maybe that's all over now that I've gotten it out. Let's hope this cold clears up and I stop being so depressed and anxious all the time. Oh, me.

A Not-Long-Enough December

I really want to do a write up of all the things I accomplished last year, but that will have to wait.

There's a girl. Her name is Paige, and I want to detail the story in its entirety here.

I believe I mentioned this monumental event previously. Early in the semester, I arrived late to my Creative Writing class as I would be doing every Thursday, and I saw no seats in the large circular formation of desks. I was super bummed, thinking this would be happening every Thursday and I'd never get to know anyone. Then a beautiful girl smiled at me and patted the open desk beside her. This was Paige.

Over the course of the semester, I was invited several times to Zipp's by two other girls in the class, one of which, Michelle, whom I was keenly interested in, and the other, Tammy, whom I felt was a little too old for me. Eventually more and more of my classmates were invited, including Paige, and I got to talk to her a little.

A bit later in the semester, I was chosen to direct the class project for my Film Noir class, and I thought to cast Michelle as the femme fatale, because she was interested and had a great look for it, but then Tammy suggested Paige. They were both interested, but Paige had to work during the auditions and Michelle didn't show up.

Given further consideration, I decided Tammy was right, and Paige had a better look for the part and some acting experience, so I offered her the part outright. We made the film. She looked beautiful and performed admirably. I was in my element and at the top of my game running that set. It was a wonderful day.

During this time I was beginning to realize that I wasn't really that interested in Michelle, despite her being a very clever writer, and my attention shifted. I didn't really pursue Paige because she was only 21 and I thought that might be a problem for her.

We all spent more time at Zipp's and hanging out after class. Michelle got a job at the restaurant where Paige worked.

On the last day of class, we hung out for the final at Zipp's, and the two of them left a little early. Tammy sat next to me and said that she had told Paige that I liked her. Thanks, Tammy. About ten minutes later, I get a text from Paige saying, "Hey do u maybe wanna get a drink with me sometime?" I'd love too.

Actually I was a little concerned that this might have been a "pity" asking-out prompted by Tammy's revelation. Oh well, I'd take it.

I went to Vegas two days later, and with finals and everything we didn't communicate much. Then this week, a few days had gone by since I returned from Vegas and left her a message, and she still hadn't called me back. I decided I was going to visit her and Michelle at work, so I texted Michelle Sunday night to find out if they were working Monday. They were.

Michelle called me and I told her what was going on. She said, "Paige has a huge crush on you." Bam. During this conversation, Paige actually texted me and apologized about not getting back to me. I told her I was going to come into her work the next day and hang out with her and Michelle since my other job was right around the corner.

That morning, Paige texted me saying they overscheduled and she wouldn't be working. She wanted to know if I'd grab lunch with her somewhere. I went into Taylor's Cafe anyway after my meeting, because I didn't want to bail on Michelle, and then I headed off to meet Paige for lunch at Sakkana, which she chose for its proximity to Guitar Center. I had to work at 2.

We had a wonderful lunch which she absolutely insisted on paying for. I went as far as I was willing to demand I pay for it without it getting weird and out-of-hand, and then I forfeited. I bought her a drink next door at Crust, and then walking out, I said that I'd like to take her out on a real date sometime. She said, "Then you should."

I texted her from work saying that she had looked beautiful. That night we texted back and forth. The next day, I asked her if I could take her on a date that night, since it would be my only day off for a while, but she was going to see Avatar with her father at 7 and had to work in the morning, so we scheduled for the next day immediately following the writing workshop our class had started.

At 6:15 she texted me saying that the movie was sold out, and asking if I still wanted to go out. Ten minutes later, I said yes, I'd love to, got dressed and then didn't hear back from her all night.

The next day, I texted her to see if we were still on for that night. She said she thought she was getting sick and probably wouldn't attend the workshop.

A friend called me later about the workshop and when I told him that Paige wouldn't be attending, he said he had visited Michelle and Paige at work, and she was indeed looking quite sick. Just before I got out of work, Paige called sounding quite dreadful, and asked if I would be willing to pick her up to go to the workshop.

This filled me with a surprising amount of glee. I said sure, asked her to text me her address, and told her I'd call her once I was out. When I called, however, she said she had changed her mind and decided it would probably be best just to stay in and get some sleep. I wished her good health, and turned around toward the workshop.

I texted her after the meeting, and we talked a bit before bed. I told her the story about the chicken noodle soup and the rose, which I'll probably have to detail someday in this blog.

So yesterday was New Year's Eve, and it occurred to me that I've accomplished a lot this year. I mean a massive amount. That's why I want to write an entry dedicated to just how much I drove myself to do this year. I didn't get a girlfriend, however, and it occurred to me that this would be another of many many years without a midnight kiss.

That probably sounds silly, but I've never ever had a girlfriend on a New Year's Eve, and that's always seemed like something I'd like to do at least once. Well, I started thinking about how maybe it was time to finally pull off the chicken noodle soup feat, and how this was possibly the most perfect opportunity I was likely to get, at least with Paige.

I texted her from work to see if she was going to be staying in, hoping that maybe I could drop by for a bit before going to see a friend that lives in Japan that I haven't seen in 5 years, but alas, Paige was going to old town with some friends. Oh well. I'll have to do it some other time.

So anyway, there is a girl. Her name is Paige. I just couldn't quite make it all happen in 2009. Hopefully it will happen in 2010.

Pretending To Live

Here I sit at my own desk, in an office of moderate size, with four desks, a small open-faced cabinet that seems as though someone has been using in place of a fifth desk, or at least for the same flat-surfaced purposes a desk would serve. The job I have promised has come. I've fretted and whined and cowered and screamed for a night and a day, but I am here now, and things are looking like they will be well, like I will do adequately at the very least, or perhaps even exceptionally.

Last night I thought I would cry. With the fear of this morning shadowing me, I thought of my mother growing old, as I often did as a child. I thought of her dying as she one day must, and I thought about that distinct, piercing despair that in hours like those I can imagine so precisely, as though the inevitable here were indeed the history elsewhere in some imperceivable world in which my enslaved mind did sometimes tarry. I thought of the old promise of suicide that her death could drive me to keep.

I went to bed, and when I awoke it had passed. I showered in a hurry, ate breakfast, and found that I had nearly an hour to sit and brood. It had not passed after all. I felt tired suddenly, and scared, and as my mother went over the lesson plans I had developed, I felt the familiar disconnection clouding my mind. I found myself staring at my mother's questioning gaze. "What?" I repeated. A moment later, "What?" Eventually I had to finish dressing and packing my supplies, and then, as I should have been merging onto the freeway, I found myself running into the house, frantically searching through couch cushions and papers and loose wires for my earbuds. I won't need them now, I don't think, but I thought perhaps I could use some music, just before teaching, to calm my nerves.

I found them after only a few shouted curses, and arrived just in time, despite scattering papers and folders in the parking lot. The building was empty except for the beautiful secretary that could not show me how to clock in.

My nerves are creeping up slowly now as I write this, so I fear it will degenerate into brief, simply constructed sentences. My class begins in less than an hour, but I am merely showing a well-respected movie and then discussing the types of films they would like to see in the future. I will be fine for sure until next Thursday night, when the familiar fear once again sets in. My only salvation lies in the hope that with time, the fear will lessen until I am as adept at living as I am at pretending to live.