Sitting here listening to Avril Lavigne’s greatest hits, which to be clear is not something I normally do. But it could be, why not. Thinking about the top five things (not enclosed) I have a desire to write about now that Civil War proved rather unspirational. Some too big, most too small.
Pop punk is nice because there’s the recognition that life is not right, but still a respect for one’s fellow human, a desire to do some uplifting. All problems are solvable, provided the requisite gumption. Does every punk song aspire to be an anthem for the downtrodden? Maybe that’s just her thing, I don’t know. Or perhaps consumerism would rather channel teening anger into mascara valued at 20 CAD per fluid ounce. Or perhaps the human spirit chooses hope at any opportunity. (I wonder how many people have seen a gallon of mascara. Is hope comparable to mascara: applied to eyes, shelf life, renewed daily. When people put on war paint in movies should they also do their lashes.) These thoughts are not of a caliber worth typing. Too small.
Still, part of adapting to a life of solitude is the recognition that one must affirm one’s existence on some level. It is not something that can really be contained through willpower alone. Like one time I was on a train and the rambling hobo next to me suddenly broke into a British bit. Please may I have some wo-tah. Some wo-tah. Sir, just a bit of wo-tah. And he kept on saying that for the rest of the ride, much to the annoyance of everyone nearby. But also, how can I begrudge him that. He needed to be saying it more than I needed to not be hearing it. In that circumstance when one has so little, one needs to confirm one’s voice. Being heard is a luxury good. What to do about all my unhappy fellows out there. Inaudible sigh. Too big.
I’ve been thinking about one of the few paintings I’ve ever wanted to own. It was this small, almost quad printer paper sized, thinly painted oil on canvas. Just a suburban intersection at night. My memory of it is almost entirely just feeling so homesick when I saw it. Because that was my home, walking around at night, sometimes traveling to or from a friend’s family’s house, sometimes just walking to have a place to be. Sometimes I would stop and look at any empty intersection and wonder what would become of me. All this property parceled out, everything spoken for. And then me, belonging to none of it. I felt comfortable inheriting the public space after everyone else was done with it. Outside can be a room of one’s own if it’s a hand me down.
Aculturality is apparently something that second or third generations immigrants can struggle with. If you were to ask me I wouldn’t say that I do struggle with it, but I think that it’s possible some of my struggles were exactly this without my explicit comprehension. I rather stubbornly resist learning too much about my heritage or ancestry because I feel the world would be better if most of us moved forward together into some strange amorphous culturally neutral mindset. Although I recognize that any such space is at great risk of being dominated by corporate forces. And other considerations. And anyway, nobody really wants to, and the people who do aren’t loud. And what would it even mean. It’s just a desire to not give in to the desire of wanting to belong. It’s one of my many higher order desires. Why DO I have to go and make everything so complicated.
I mean it’s the same as with sex. I once got into a discussion of why I want sex to mean something. And the distinction I needed to make is that I don’t especially want sex to mean something. It’s just one more thing on the list of everything, and I want each one of them to mean as much as can be meant. And no, I don’t want things to be devoid of cultural identity, or for no one to record or care about the genesis of each idea. I wouldn’t want an unfurnished Wikipedia. What I take issue with is the pledging loyalty or even familiarity to one piece of trivia over another. It’s like with sex fetishes. They’re very interesting to learn about but I wouldn’t want to become acclimated to one myself. I see cultural identity the same way. Ireland is interesting but I wouldn’t want to be Irish. Maybe for a day, but in general I’d prefer to just be me. The individual is national enough. Is that an American mindset.
And before you say: chill out, what ya yellin’ for. I suppose sometimes I get perturbed that more people don’t champion not championing any group in particular. It is okay to not belong anywhere, to just be by yourself, to have no people of your own, to covet no history but the personal. Maybe it’s less satisfying, and decidedly ungrand, and frequently depressing, but it can also be a relief, and courageous in its own way, and perhaps even beneficent. You are constantly reminded that each other person is a person, and you require nothing from them, nothing already shared aside from sapience itself. The postmodern problem is not a problem because you don’t need to choose—just love it all equally. That is postscarcity mindset. Not everything needs a foundation. In space, debris simply coalesces. Each time it happens is as miraculous as the last.
saltednotion 