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.

File > Save As...

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.
File > Save As...
Proof of Everything.