I'm reading a book by Chuck Klosterman titled Killing Yourself to Live. It's about a writer for Spin magazine that does an expose(I guess you could call it) on the world's fascination with death, and how being a musician that has died automatically elevates you to godhood. So far, he's snorted coke off in a graveyard and had a schizophrenic bout with himself and his three imaginary women, only one of which he's in a relationship with. It's ironic that the book is essentially one long road trip, because that's exactly the kind of thought it's inspired. You're locked in the isolation of you and your friends' means of transportation, using the stereo as your own soundtrack. It's like a Kevin Smith movie. I'm reading this while some movie is playing on TV, it's called "The World, then Fireworks." Right now, I'm om imdb.com, seeing what everyone else has to say about the movie, and frankly, it's not good. What I paid attention to seemed incredibly enthralling, mainly because the setting is essentially the ideal 1950's black and white, smoking and evocative dialog in Chicago motif. Something about me wishes that's how things functioned still.
However, the entire time I'm thinking about the difference between myself then and now. The difference that will be between myself now and when I'm forty. I'm nineteen, and sometimes I feel like I'll never figure anything out about myself. I'm pretty much a walking collection of hypocrisies, the same thing I ultimately hate about people in general. One passage of the book, the author asks, "When I'm fifty, will I have a hard time justifying the context of searching through Robert Johnson's crossroads just to satiate my obsession with death?" Just then, Billy Zane howls at some woman he's sleeping with, demanding she let her id take over. Just then, a previous passage jolts through my head: "You're fascinated and obsessed with these things because you want to compensate for not being able to understand them."
That's about where I decided to quit reading for the night, because I felt genuinely affected by it. I'm obsessed with so many things. Whether or not it's because I don't understand them may not apply to all, but even so, I began to think. For instance, I'm obsessed with people telling me about their problems, especially if they're depressed. I'm a manic-depressive, and at times I feel that if I can listen to all these people tell me their problems and maybe cheer them up, I'll have the answer for myself. It'll be so much easier to just convince myself that things are not really the way I think they are. Seems that after nineteen years though, you'd become impervious to your own cycle of disillusioning yourself and putting a new illusion into the vacuum. For someone who's always despised alpha males and cringed at the thought of becoming one, sometimes I wonder why I won't just admit to myself that I want to dominate the conversation. I want people to feel intrigued and that there's something new and different when it comes to me, but there might not be anything at all behind the over-analytical nonsense.
I argue with myself constantly. The friends I have, what would happen if I let my id take over for a day? Or, what would happen if I just quit trying to make them laugh or feel so comfortable? What would happen if I really was tragically hit by a bus? Would I just be quietly phased out of peoples' lives one day, only for them to ask, "Whatever happened to that guy?" It's not that I want to make a difference for hundreds of people, it's that I want to make a difference for two or three. That's why I'm so obsessed with death as well as the taboos and mystique surrounding it. I don't know who I'll know by the time I die. I don't know who will remember me the way I really was or who will remember be because of what I did for them, and it really does bother me. That's why I'm so fascinated by learning about everyone who I felt has influenced me. All the biographic books I own are by people who have massive influence over me, the only stipulation being that all of them are about people who are now dead.
What I'm feeling right now, I don't really know if it's depression or fragility. Weakness is definitely a contender.
When I was young, it seemed that life was so wonderful,
a miracle, oh it was beautiful, magical.
And all the birds in the trees, well they'd be singing so happily,
joyfully, playfully watching me.
But then they send me away to teach me how to be sensible,
logical, responsible, practical.
And they showed me a world where I could be so dependable,
clinical, intellectual, cynical.
There are times when all the world's asleep,
the questions run too deep
for such a simple man.
Won't you please, please tell me what we've learned
I know it sounds absurd
but please tell me who I am.
I didn't really want to actually post a blog on my Livejournal. I have MySpace, Facebook, the standard spill-your-guts sites, so naturally when I occasionally feel the need to write and publish something useful, I have a number of venues to do it through. I figured Livejournal would be a nice parody blog, and I might actually get back to that someday, but whatever.