JJ

"What makes most people's lives unhappy is some disappointed romanticism, some unrealizable or misconceived ideal. In fact you may say that idealism is the ruin of man."

I'm done.

Perhaps now that I'm done venting my holiday cheer I can try to use this space more constructively.

No more self-indulgent whining... well at least for as long as I can bear without.

writing it away

Whatever whims move me to want to move back to Chicago are always erased after an extended stay at home. Continually I am accused (in laconically manipulative ways though not unfounded) of running away from responsibility and even with distance the guilt overwhelms any chance of true escape. But what would I gain by living here again, immersing myself in outright, never-ending confrontation?

I kept thinking that if I could just make it through Christmas then the rest of my break would be fine and so as family drama kept escalating and escalating, I continued to thwart it by numbing my emotional capacities further and further. Apathy was my default response to everything and by Christmas morning I felt enveloped by a serene indifference, imperturbable, so much so that I lounged around watching Superbad, completely unconcerned by my sister taking a whopping two hours to get ready. Her languid pace, just like my apathy, was infused by dread and we didn't end up strolling out the door until fifteen minutes before we were supposed to arrive at our father's, even though we live an hour away. Making matters worse, we weren't directly going there but instead had to stop by our great-uncle's apartment to drop off the gifts to the four blood-relatives we have left on our dad's side of the family. For reasons too exhausting to go into, they were not invited to Christmas this year, and though we haphazardly assumed we could just walk-in and do a quick exchange, we ended up staying there forty-five minutes talking and joking, feeling too guilty to leave hastily, on top of not really wanting to go where we were required to be. And sure enough on the car ride from our uncle's to our dad's my sister got the hostile call. Again we were embarrassing him. Again we were exceedingly delinquent. Yet another Christmas ruined at our hands. The dread swinging fully over to defeat.

We walked in the door nearly two hours late, our father fuming and a plethora of his wife's relatives yet again looking at us like we're the shittiest daughters in the world. My sister tried to apologize and reason with him upstairs but just ended up crying in the bathroom for a half hour, while I sat at the kitchen table ignored by him and unable to escape his wife's mother politely lecturing me on what a wonderful, wonderful man he is, how much he's been through this year, and how much he doesn't deserve our constant ill-treatment. I sat there with a stupid smile, grinding my teeth together in a silent fury as I stared down at the place mat on the table, knowing full well that it was just as impossible for me to explain my disposition to her, as it would be for me to do so to my father or anyone else in that room.

We can't win. Is our bias just as prejudice as theirs? I can't handle all the fighting, the siding, and forced fakery. As opposite as my sister and I are in personality, I find it amusing that we're dating the exact same type of guy: altrustic, unmotivated, reliable, and forgiving, i.e. the exact opposite of our father. Both of us shy away from our own family gatherings, our boyfriends' families, and from the desire to start ones of our own. Before I came home for break I was so set on initiating confrontation, but now I fail to see the point. Maybe it's because I selfishly don't care enough about the situation to set it right, or maybe it's because I'm already exhausted and I know it's a battle with no winners and no end. Maybe I'm just tired of beating myself up over things that I can't change.

I just keep thinking, "you can't choose your family" but we can be replaced. It really doesn't bother me at all, which makes me feel even more guilty. I just don't know how much more I can tolerate it being rubbed in my face.

...

And a little humor for those who know her (not me)...

J: You're a bitch.
H: If anyone's a bitch, you are.
J: True, but you're a little crazy. One minute you're fine, the next minute... bitch.
H: So what - you're just more of a classic bitch?
J: Hah, that's right! I'm just your good old, classic, old-fashioned bitch.

medicated

Repeatedly I have been lectured this past week by my sister and her boyfriend about my supposed bipolar disorder and each time I become increasingly irritated by their urgings for treatment via medication. (My extremes only display themselves around those closest to me and they'd have a hard time convincing everyone else of their existence. In fact most people find me rather stoic to point of being cold and unconcerned - it's my passion for secrecy.) Although I struggle to contradict their diagnosis, especially since they both work in the biology/medical fields, I can't help but take offense to their suggestions. Perhaps it's hindsight hypocrisy but I've turned increasingly against the use of medication or drugs (for me personally; I'm impartial to what other people do), to the neurotic extreme that I restrain myself from even taking an ibuprofen for pain unless I feel it absolutely unavoidable. I even have to feel that I'm on my deathbed before I'd see a doctor for a cold. Those are merely the physical ailments; I'm even more obstinate with mental ones. Not to say that my recreational dabbling and experimentation sufficed as the end-all trial to dismiss the possible, positive health benefits of prescription medication but they did make me weary of relying on pills to cheat myself out of confronting emotional issues - I'd rather gamble with suicidal ideation than "correct" what I consider personality traits, no matter how hindering they may be.

Although experience and upbringing come strongly into play, in biological terms so much of our unique personalities, our individualities could be accounted for by chemical imbalances and it's incredibly ambiguous trying to draw the line between natural imbalances and unhealthy ones. I think too many people focus on being happy and on being (what I consider) subdued. So what if it's not easy riding on a constant stream of highs and mostly lows, always fighting a slightly paranoid but constant anxiety? Sure I feel held back from numerous things I'd like to do, but then there have also been numerous other things I've learned about myself and life, things that I could never otherwise appreciate or see. A full life can't be all good experiences just so much as a full mind can't be all positive, serene feelings. I'm willing to deal with how I naturally am (though that doesn't imply that I'm necessarily good at it) no matter how unpredictable and malicious that makes me appear. What's it matter; I'm asocial anyway.

sulk

Mere survival takes precedence over all. I get nothing done.

a found dialogue between siblings

click image for details.

ugh

This is me not sleeping................................

i'd rather fail

"So sick and tired of all these pictures of me. Completely wrong. Totally wrong."

My position has become unstable and it's beginning to show. I can see in those dearest that they know: I'm starting to crack. They lecture me on who they see me to be, as if my words, desperate for change, contradict their expectations. They stand tall in the divinity of Outsider, Unbiased imploding me in an inundation of guilt and frustration, further confused, unable to defend my principles amidst collective bigotry. Am I excreting my innards or shedding a skin? My rationale becomes fogged in their good intentions. One by one they debase my aims as impractical idealism, reprimanding in the form of sympathetic advice. I cannot make them understand, to see things through the filter that I do. They worry for me citing that these ideas cannot be my own. Because they are not theirs? They care! They speak of happiness. I hear complacency. They speak of camaraderie in the grind but I only see unendurable survival. I receive corrosive pity in response, sometimes disappointment. I cannot hold up in this environment.

I cannot sleep.

lost

If not the pen, where does the forlorn misanthrope retreat?

discontent

But it's always just a start.

Encouragement

I did my weekly check-in phone call with my dad today. A mixture of prolonged lack of sleep and stress from my job made me sound even more down and monotoned than usual, despite my efforts to mask it. And what was my dad's response when I gave him those excuses for my tone? "Good, it's good that they're working you to the bone." He continued his speech in this manner as if my twenties should be spent couped up with long hours at the office, eagerly working away to earn the respect of my co-workers and overseers. The words of the lecture didn't bother me so much as the tone of them: I could really hear the pride in his voice, as if finally I was in the real world, living my life - a sort of bourgeois rite of passage I suppose. My dad has always upheld the work hard, play hard ethic to life, embracing fifty-hour work weeks and beer-filled, crazed weekends. I don't mean to doubt that my enjoyment of life isn't important to him, but he's unwilling to realize that what worked for him is not right for me. His happiness is not mine. The miscommunication is more my fault than his, but I know that any personal statement I make in contradiction to his philosophy will only be taken with reproach. So per usual, I choose silent disobedience.

On the other hand, when I was home last and my mom inquired about the details of my job, I decided to be candid with her and expressed my dissatisfaction and lack of desire to continue in my chosen profession. She immediately became stern with me and told me to suck it up because nobody likes their job, as if her unhappiness meant inevitable unhappiness for everyone. She went on further about the importance of steady income, health insurance, and continued to stubbornly debase my apprehensions by calling them naive and foolish. We tend to be in a constant, uninhibited feud over my ideals, and although we usually come to a stand still on the verbal banters, my inability to act upon my more prominent beliefs give her grounds over me.

These two constant, opposite though equally opposing forces matched against my frail will makes my path seem less surprising. Too well, I see both their reasons and good intentions, despite my invariable disagreement.

sigh

What becomes text is always so much more shallow than what I really wanted to say.

continual steps

Yesterday I finished Carney's book on film director Carl Dreyer, and throughout my reading, I continually felt as if I might as well have watched his films with my eyes shut and my hands pressed over my ears. Carney's analysis articulated depths which seemed so obvious and luminary upon reading but remained so confused and elusive not only when I watched the discussed films, but also in the weeks spent mulling them over on my own with great difficulty. I know that it's asinine to expect that I could grasp after a single set of viewings all that Carney ascertained during his extensive research on Dreyer's work (not to mention his far exceeding studies in general) but I can't help but stutter in dismay at my own lack of absorption. In fact it only brings to surface the looming concern that I am only getting the most superficial (and perhaps completely wrong) insights, bastardizing otherwise profound works. My surface-level studies, a frantic effort in quantity, are not exercising nor enhancing my perceptive skills but rather formulating a permanent dilettante.

Okay, that's not completely true as I have developed significantly, but rather I'm expressing my concern for the ways in which I find myself cheating, namely, relying too heavily on critical analysis for insight than on the works themselves and my own ability to interpret them. Why am I not writing more about the films I watch, on my reflections and confusions? Why am I only watching certain films once, swiftly letting go of them the moment they end, when I am missing depths of which I know are there? I'm attracted to challenges but always shy from those grandiose, marking them lower priority to the smaller, more attainable feats.

And so my time with Dreyer is not over, but instead I'm going to make an attempt to spend time these next weeks watching his last three films repetitively, honing my perceptive abilities: listening to the tonal patterns in characters' voices and not deafly relying on the subtitles for dialogue; paying attention to lighting, framing, blocking, and camera movements not just in terms of pure technique but in terms of the film's spirit and tone; meditating on faces and relationships between characters including parallels and possible representations of ideals. [Am I punctuating correctly here? I don't think so. I've been taking notice of more complex grammar structures recently in other texts and I am trying incorporate them into my own rhetoric. (I should put myself in grammar lessons.)] Carney's insights have graced me with a profound foundation that I need to test out and practice on my own while his ideas are still fresh in mind; now that I am better prepared with how to look at Dreyer's work, can I see what I've been told is there? It's another start.

Song of the Week!*

Joanna Newsom - Only Skin

* Not to imply that all weeks are granted song.