Quote 292

I don’t know why my body is so intent in sabotaging my brain, when my brain is perfectly capable of sabotaging itself.

- Beth’s mother, Queen’s Gambit s1 e3

Quote 291

Only an academic would state the obvious and pass it off as wisdom.

- Going Postal, Terry Pratchett

Glow

A few weeks back, I watched Rocketman, a biopic about Elton John whose career has spanned decades.

The actor was perfect for the part. The musical-ish segments were a pleasant surprise. Such a delight, I was grinning from ear to ear at one of the numbers.

The psychoanalytical components were classic. Dad never hugged him or showed affection. Mother told him flat out that he was a disappointment. Dad ran off, had a new family, and somehow was able to show affection toward the new sons.

The void and the desperate search for approval and love. The self-abuse, the tumult and agony. Oh, so familiar.

Remember the VH1 series "Where Are They Now?" I used to jeer at how all the stories were similar. One rises to fame. One doesn't know what to do with the attention. One fails to manage one's finances properly. One abuses alcohol and drugs. One falls to ruins.

On one hand, it is humbling to be reminded that the cliché "Money doesn't buy happiness" is but true.

On the other, must they all be doomed to suffer this fate?

(Spoiler alert) I am glad Rocketman was not such a story.

Toward the end (spoiler alert), I was quite moved by the visual of present-day Elton consoling child Elton (before he was Elton) by lowering himself and gently holding the latter. It stunned me because I distinctly recall that was exactly what my therapist had asked me to do. 

I wasn't able to. To this day, I come by a childhood photo of me, and often feel disdain. A lot of adults deemed that child dumb. How could she not be? How could she be worthy?

There was a scene leading up to the happy ending in which (spoiler alert) Elton put his foot down and stood up to his parents. 

"I won't allow you to speak to me this way [with disrespect]," he said.

That was yet another thing my therapist had asked me to do. I couldn't. Real life is complicated. We have a cultural divide to boot.

There will always be a chasm between my parents and me. The anger is gone now. I can be at peace. I can love them, flaws and all, from across the divide. 

Quote 290

What no one tells you is that sometimes, even if you've figured yourself out, you'll have no one around you to share what you've found.

- "Visitor", Bryan Washington

Breeze

 I quit my game cold turkey today.

It wasn't the first time I had been obsessed with an online RPG. Last was Cafe World by Zynga. The former no longer exists. Zynga still does.

This time it is Taonga: the Island Farm by Volka Zavod.

You have to know that categorically I am not into video games. Growing up, I took pleasure in watching my brother W play, first on our first computer, a Macintosh. Later, Atari. I did not have what it takes to play: guts, perseverance, grace to lose and learn from your mistakes. When we graduated to handheld games, trying to keep the lions from escaping from their cage literally made me scream.

I preferred to enjoy the excitement from the sidelines. That was kind of my stand on life as well.

Fast forward to decades later during the year when I was decidedly unemployed and just taking it easy. It was the early stage of dating RJ. I was madly in love and high on life. Between newspapers, magazines and the worldwide web, I never ran out of things to read. I was never bored.

But something clicked when I came across Cafe World. They start you off nice and easy, to be sure. "Achievements" came readily and quickly. Instant gratification. Before I knew it, I was hooked. (I am aware that I have blogged about this experience before.) 

Yes, we know that I have an addictive personality. These companies know what's up, what it takes to reel you in.

As you level up, tasks become more and more difficult, then impossible. Until one day, out of desperation, I paid real money. Once you cross that threshold, it's a danger zone. How far will you go? 

Days went by. Then, one day, out of the blue, I realized that it was all very absurd and not worth my time (or money). I quit and never looked back.

Recently, though, when I researched out of curiosity and found out that Cafe World is now defunct, there was a sense of loss. Just goes to show it is insane to invest in an online game. The empire that you spend months building can vanish at any time and you've got nothing to show for it.

Ten years since Cafe World, of all places, I saw an ad of Taonga on dictionary.com (a site that I frequent). It was Sunday, September 13, a fateful day, as it turned out. The ad featured a puzzle. It read: Can you solve this to rescue the animals? And at the bottom of the entrapment device was a chick and a calf, very adorable. The protagonist is brunette, slim and curvy in the right places, but not in an obnoxious Hollywood way. She was... relateable.

I thought, Yeah, I can rescue the animals. How hard can it be? I'll spend an hour, tops, and move on.

The nature of the game was not even close to what was advertised (I should mention that I am the last person to fancy a farm-themed game. I laughed at FarmVille.) But, once I was in, it was such a whirlwind, with easily achievable goals as bait, and you're being thrown bones (in this case, diamonds) left and right. It took only one day for me to be officially sucked in.

Before long, it was very obvious that Volka makes revenue with gamers who are willing to shell out real dough. I silently judged and secretly mocked the fools who would pay real money on a fake archipelago.

Until one day, a very attractive offer presented itself. One that may never reappear, once gone.

I thought, What's $4.99? Small price to pay for [insert ridiculous imaginary item in game]. After all, what's money if it can't buy happiness?

And that was the gateway drug. I am very ashamed.

So ashamed that, I have never told anyone, including RJ, whom I tell everything.

So there was a classic spiraling down. As expected, as one levels up, more and more time (and money, optional, only if one allows) is required to keep up with the game. It ceases being fun. It becomes more of a chore. But one thinks, Oh, but I can't stop now. I've come so far!

And the game still treats you with just enough rewards that fuel you to advance. There's stuff to look forward to, a sense of purpose, a reason to get up in the morning.

Yes, very pathetic. I know.

That's just it, though. There will always be another quest. It never ends. You are never truly satisfied. It is a bottomless pit.

Buddha said desire is the root of all misery.

The rising pressure of the game coincided with a particularly challenging period at work. We have a new account full of demands that has been stressing me out tremendously. I look forward to 5 p.m. everyday because that's when the work day ends and my game night begins. And SIP due to the pandemic makes it all possible. I don't even commute! Transition in a sec!

Then, in the past two nights or so, I finally approached a breaking point. Spending over two hours per night making fake flour just does NOT feel right. That's time I could be spending sitting next to RJ, enjoying his company and a good convo instead. At this point, TV seems more productive.

RJ, God bless him (I do not believe in God), has never, not even once, derided me for my apparent addiction to the game. I think maybe he knew that sooner or later I would come to my senses.

Another jolt back to reality was my credit card statement, of course. I had a ballpark figure in mind. I didn't want to know. Have always been an escapist since childhood. I convinced myself at least I am not eating out or buying things as much, so having this expenditure was *maybe* justified?

It is not the worst. It is not meth. But bad enough.

With any toxic relationship, if you are lucky, you eventually arrive at the point of no return. Last night was it, nearly 3 months after I had started. Today, a Sunday again, makes 84 days, to be exact.

Not having to rush to prep things as soon as I rise, not having to set my online alarm clock as a reminder to finish the next task, being able to sit elsewhere, doing something else, something actually pleasurable, maybe even educational... I feel so liberated. I feel light. I feel like myself again. I am going to read the New York Times this afternoon like I did every Sunday before the stupid game came along.

Good riddance, Taonga. Here's to hoping you were the last for me. 

Quote 289

 A good gym, like a good bar, fuses two things: oblivion and anonymity.

- Christian Wiman

Severing a Sleeve

 This was on Sunday yesterday.

#TIL there is an expression in Chinese, “severing a sleeve” 「斷袖」, that dates back to the 2^nd century, which is an euphemism for homosexuality. Apparently, as recorded in the Book of Han, the emperor awakes to find his male lover still in slumber on the former’s robe. In order not to disturb him, the emperor tenderly cuts off the sleeve to retrieve the robe.

I find this story very touching. What a poetic, beautiful expression.

Also, he's the emperor. You'd think he'd have more than one robe. Like, this one couldn't wait?

Unless... it was the imperial robe, the one and only. In which case... No, I still can't.

Cecilia, Lux, Bonnie, Mary, and Therese

Yesterday I finally watched The Virgin Suicides. I had wanted to watch it from inception. Somehow 21 years slipped by before I did.

It was a bit darker than I had imagined, even though the title should have clued me in (I wasn't sure to take it literally or not). I liked that the book had been written by a man and it managed to beautifully and convincingly delve into the psyche of teenage girls. Having been one myself eons ago, admittedly I did not/do not understand my peers and how their minds worked/work at times.

Given the current pandemic and quarantine, the isolation portrayed in the story couldn't have hit closer to home. If the author (and screenplay writer/adapter) chastised the mother who in no uncertain terms is responsible for driving her daughters toward desperation, the sentiment was very subtle, which somehow makes the tragedy all the more unbearable.

I like that the narrator and his friends, young as they were, truly cared about the Lisbon girls, a yearning to be close that went beyond lust, esteem and prestige. They didn't like them in spite of the fact they were girls, or solely because they were girls, but almost with a kind of intrigue and respect, as persons and individuals. Sure, the girls were beautiful. But oh, the connection!

OK. So maybe the boys worshipped the girls like they were deities, to some degree. The daily convention to observe the latter, subscribing to the same magazines, etc. was more religion than hobby. In the end, when the world was moving on from the painful memory (or did they ever care?), the boys acknowledged a long goodbye. That moment to me was pure friendship.

I hope it was true to the book. 

Drama has to be believable for me to buy and get into.

There was one point that bothered me: Therese was 17 going on eighteen. She was so close to becoming an independent adult. Finally free to make her own decisions, go where she pleased, no longer confined, physically and psychologically. Why wouldn't she have waited? I'd be counting down the days.

Also, why did each girl choose a different method of suicide? Wouldn't it be easier to, say, all take sleeping pills, as one of them did? Perhaps there weren't enough sleeping pills. Still, employing seemingly ALL methods in the book (save for a shot in the temple) seems unpractical. One's gotta ask: how to decide who gets what? What if two of them want the same method? Was there an argument? Personally, sticking one's head in the oven is way too uncomfortable. Worse, hanging. I couldn't tie a secure knot to save my life - oops, the point would not be to save my life, touché.

I wonder if the book alluded to more. The problem with watching a movie based on a book that I haven't read, for me, is I tend to wonder if the book will be better. Books usually are. But, once I have seen the movie, I can't go to the book. The movie will have ruined it for me. (And once I have read a book I have no need for the move, as in The Help, and Eat Pray Love.)

As in Gone Girl, I had such high hopes. I bought the book and sat on it and sat on it. When the movie came out, I tried with all my might to avoid seeing or hearing anything about it. But it is near impossible in today's day and age. Ultimately, just knowing that Ben Affleck starred in the leading role ruined the reading experience when I finally got to it. Try as I did, it could not be un-ruined.

Gone Girl, incidentally, was a novel obviously based on meticulous research, very well structured (for the most part). But in the end it quickly unraveled for me. Again, it's a fine line between incredible (good) and unbelievable (I'm out of here).

Perhaps these are reasons that the ambiguity of The Virgin Suicides really appealed to me. It is not about a pedantic moral. (Is it just me, though?)

Quote 288

Oh, it must be nice
To love someone
who lets you break them twice.

- FINNEAS

Quote 287

 ... a cheerful life lived in ignorance... is worse than a less agreeable one lived with the truth.

- Kwame Anthony Appiah

Quote 286

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

Quote 285

Life is a pill which none of us can bear to swallow without gilding.

- Samuel Johnson

Quote 284

In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty.

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Temperance

You know that stereotype of an aging, get-off-my-lawn curmudgeon? Now that I am nearly 50 (I tend to round up), I definitely have far less patience for downers.

In Chinese, age 50 is dubbed "half-hundred" to indicate a milestone imbued with wisdom. I don't know about wise, but I am more likely to speak my mind, with that "If you don't like it you can unfriend me" bulletproof vest on.

In this age of bad news and more bad news, I am saturated to the point where, if you're going to be a killjoy, I don't even have the energy to engage. Killjoys like my mother, and Aunt Lynn.

They mean well, of course. They always mean well.

When I was younger I enjoyed rebutting that pathetic excuse with one of the best quotes of all time:

"All roads to hell are paved with good intentions."

The year I turned 18, I was moving to California. Aunt Lynn sent a card with some pragmatic housewarming gifts such as kitchen towels and potholders (I didn't even know one needed potholders). In the card, essentially she had written:

"Out in California, careful not to get skin cancer!"

It was so Aunt Lynn. My favorite story to tell whenever I needed to illustrate what a worrywart she was. I'd tell the story, and I'd laugh. It's that absurd.

For years Aunt Lynn was that aunt who would forward apocalyptic news by email that a friend must have forwarded to her. Forwarded by a friend who must have gotten it from a friend. Like a secret club of chain letters.

And these days, now that people don't exactly email for fun anymore, WhatsApp groups, and the like. My mother has been guilty of the same. Seen a piece of news (more like a photo with text) with no date? Forward. It even says "Forward to friends and family to save them!" If I would have had a dollar every time I've fact-checked on their behalf, to debunk or identify as irrelevant due to passage of time... How are people who don't fact-check not embarrassed?

Ever noticed that "pet peeves" are not very "pet" at all?

It irks me to no end, people who make negative comments on social media. People who are supposed to be your friends. It does not happen to me a lot. But I get angry witnessing it happen to someone else. (Yeah, exactly why I have greatly reduced time spent on social media.)

When someone posts a photo of food they have enjoyed, just be happy for them. Please refrain from stupid advice like "Oh, but the cholesterol!", "So high in calories!", "Consuming raw seafood is risky!" They're adults. They know the risks. Have you ever encountered anyone who, when confronted with such comments, responds with, "Oh! Thank you SO much! I had NO idea!!!"?

People who make such comments are probably jealous. Please take your jealousy and move along. Keep scrolling.

This reminds me. About a decade ago, maybe, Aunt Lynn observed that my cousin Trent had put on weight. She pained over (for days) whether of not she should "tell him". I was incredulous. Eventually I was able to talk her out of it. (I was nice about it.) I mean seriously, don't you think he has a mirror?

People make the choices they make. Your are not their savior. Mind your own business.

Incidentally it was only a phase. Trent has been going to the gym regularly since. And if he hasn't? His life. Bug off!

The world is full of negativity. If we can't build each other up, what are we even doing here? And if we can't build each other up, the least we can each do as a decent human being is not to add to the negativity.

Yesterday I decided that I deserved a real long weekend, one of peace and quiet. I didn't need to discuss politics, yet again, with the 'rents, on Skype. I didn't need noise.

So I stated as much in our WhatsApp group, and did so without apologizing. (In the past, whenever I'd miss Skype, I'd apologize. EVERY. Time.) Bam! Self care. It felt good. It felt liberating, and empowering.

Not to say there was no trace of guilt. But I am not looking back.

This morning my mother has left one of those "best in moderation" comments on one of my new food photos. At first I was furious. Knee-jerk was to justify my decision. I commented on her comment, stomach in knots, bracing the possibility of a "feud".

Moments later, fuming less, I thought, I am so tired of explaining myself! Her comment was actually not worth my time and energy. You know that cliché: not going to dignify that with a response? I deleted my comment.

And it felt good. It felt liberating, and empowering.

There is no button for you to push, Ma. Not today.

I am half-hundred. I have no patience for negative people. Get off my lawn.

Concave

Social media addiction is no joke. Goddamned FOMO. It's only been three days since I swore off (temporarily) these sites, and already I feel restless.

But then I remember how disinterested I was getting as I scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled... How bored I was. Oh, great, food again. Oh, great, politics again. And that obsession to click Like again and again until my tendonitis became exacerbated. (How ridiculous is THAT?!) As if the act of clicking Like would buy me love.

There is no love, no real connection.

These people, they are not my friends. These groups, they are not real communities. If I never showed by virtual face again nobody would miss me.

See, the trick of weaning is not to convince myself I don't need them. It is to be reminded: they don't need me.

Mired

Since the incident yesterday, I woke up still feeling 100% shitty about life itself. I moped around all morning.

I concluded that something had died in me.

RJ had left me a very cute note, asking me to turn on the oven to 350°F at 11:30 a.m. (so he could bake his beloved croissant). He'd come a long way. I have repeatedly asked him to please solicit my help. In general he doesn't ask me for anything. I'd notice him, sometimes, wandering about, as if lost. It's very adorable actually. Like a child. (He never complains. God bless him - if we believed in God.) Then I'd know he must have misplaced something. He's not the type to be hollering, "Honey, have you seen [insert noun]?"

Or sometimes he'd be searching high and low in the kitchen, and I'd offer to help him find a jar of something that a recipe calls for, be it in the fridge or in the pantry. He never initiates any such inquiry.

On this day, though, when I see the note, despite the little giddiness that he's come around, I write below his paragraph, as a reply:

If I am still alive.

Yeah, a bit dramatic. I agree.

In the afternoon, RJ asked me how I was feeling. I immediately turned weepy. But reined in the emotions in time.

"Pretty bleak," I replied.

I took a vow to safeguard my sanity. For a few days at least, I am not going to consume any social media. That shit is eating me alive. Everyone seems to be coping well and thriving, being responsible, productive, happy adults. I feel like I am the only one struggling, the only one who, just last night, bawled her eyes out because I thought Daddy liked me best but he doesn't.

I need a break. I need to get off the grid.

And I am most definitely NOT going on WhatsApp. I see that I have notifications. I don't want to know. Go away.

Today I avoided my phone like the plague. Like it could kill me. Any moment now.

It is too much to have to explain I am running away from toxicity. I just want to disappear.

Tomorrow is another work day. I can't run forever. I will need to be "findable" again. I hate that with our 21st century technology and phone culture, any one can reach out to you at all hours. Our boss, a fine person in many ways, has been known to call us frantically after hours at times. I resent the expectations to be available around the clock. I resent the expectation of findability.

So, I turn it off. While I can. Be off. World, be off.

A fairly recent epiphany of mine is that no one can ever truly know you. You will be the only person who truly knows you. No one could be there for every experience, every heartbreak. Those will be yours and yours alone.

And that's a tremendously lonely place to be.

Slight

I hung up on my parents and my brother W over our weekly Skype session earlier.

My parents have this habit of turning these conversations into consultations in which my brother is the perceived expert on subjects such as technology and politics, the quintessential keynote speaker. And I sit there, trying to engage, barely getting a word in.

Well today it happened again. More than fed up and consumed by rage, I hit the Hang Up red button. Goodbye!

My presence is obviously not needed here. Guess what, I have better things to do.

Growing up, I always felt like my brother's opinion mattered more than mine. We'd have unofficial family meetings where I would not feel heard at all.

I suddenly realize today that that's where a lot of my deep-seated anger is coming from.

You know that quote that you can feel only as small as you allow them to make you feel?

I seem to recall that my therapist used to advise me to stand my ground with (at least) my mother. (My father was not part of the problem, or so I thought, during that time. In hindsight, as they say, it's the parent you don't talk about...)

My father was supposed to be on my side. I was supposed to be his favorite. We each get a parent we like better, and vice versa. Seems fair.

Oh, the sting.

I'd like to think that today I did more than stand up to my parents for their disrespect.

I'll probably regret it in the morning.

After I hung up, my hands shaking from the fury, I typed a quick note on WhatsApp where we have our family group chat:

"If you are only going to talk about politics, take your time. Don't mind if I back out. Catch you next week."

Still shaking, I stormed out of our study and went off to do something pleasurable instead: read one of the many New York Times magazines that I've been running behind reading.

But I can hardly concentrate.

I decided I needed to blog. Before I did, I made sure to shut down my WhatsApp for Windows window, to avoid distractions and interruptions.

It looked as if my message to excuse myself hadn't even been read. They probably hadn't even noticed.

Before COVID hit, I had the pleasure of dragging RJ to see a live performance of Chicago. Chicago is one of my favorite musicals. RJ is not categorically a fan of musicals. But he's always gracious to accompany me to things that I enjoy.

It was a lot of fun for me. I knew every song, albeit not necessarily all the lyrics (a good portion, though). And I appreciate a killer choreography.

After the show, glowing in delight, I told RJ that Mr. Cellophane had always been my favorite song of the set because, I said, "I relate." Utterly surprised, he reacted with a half cough/half chuckle.

My knee-jerk reaction to his reaction was a little bit of hurt, a little bit of disappointment. How did he not know that I had felt invisible for decades?

How could he, though? Unless you have felt second-best and overlooked yourself.

'Cause you can look right through me
Walk right by me
And never know I'm there...

Plantigrade

Back in November I received this note from Pinterest that I found absolutely hilarious.

I wondered who in the "community" ratted me out - ahem, I mean "[became] concerned". I hadn't even been on Pinterest in months.

Ah, that's just it.

Cumulus

Like my parents (especially my father) before me, I have a hoarding problem. I have a really hard time letting go of things. Before I know it, I've got stacks of magazines and piles of paper lying around.

I used to be fairly good at filing things away. But there are only so many file cabinets you can fit, and so many boxes you can heap.

I think it has to do with my sense of displacement, having moved so much, having lost so many mementos. For fuck's sake I still mourn my childhood room, all my books, my diaries, my collection of stamps from countries far, far away, some of which no longer exist.

When I was younger I bought a lot of books, many of which I haven't read. I do love books, not just the joy of reading, but as an art form (it's the Graphic Design major speaking). And also I had many feelings of inadequacy I thought books could ease.

I don't like clutter per se. When RJ states we have too much stuff, I joke that we just don't have a big enough place. Perhaps no place would ever be big enough, given the disease of my mind.

Yesterday, on my birthday, I was taking photos of my lunch as I often do (I was doing this before everybody was doing it). At least I have a spot at the table that's always available - that much I need to maintain my sanity. It is highly important for me to be able to sit down and have a proper sense of a meal.

Then I realized no matter how I finagle, I could not get a clean shot. Because there was always something in the background ruining the picture.

I decided enough was enough. On a whim, I started to clean the orderly mess. (It's orderly because my stacks are very straight, not haphazard. You know. OCD.)

No, not the entire table, silly, Just enough so that there is a better, nicer space between my food and the wall.

While I was at it, I rode the wave and next attacked my desk in the study. That was an even more challenging task. There was literally no surface left for writing. And since shelter in place, I'd been working there, making do day by day. For almost three months, it was a balancing act. Comical at best.

Cleaning is always overwhelming and painful, both emotionally and tactually. When organizing, we also run out of room to neatly clear things out of sight. While sorting menus, even though I knew full well some were easily found online, I couldn't just toss all of them. Again, I've been in love with printed matter for a long time.

I found some cute missives from RJ, some thank you notes from vendors, a whole lot of business cards. Yes, I collect business cards. I could say I am into networking, but a revelation came to me as I was going through them: holding on to these made me feel connected, as if I had real friends.

I do sometimes actually enter these people in my Contacts for safekeeping, but a lot of the time I don't. It gives me pleasure to review the physical cards, admire the designs, revisit the encounters, and revel in possibilities.

Over the weekend, during our weekly conference call, my mother lamented the fact that she had a chest of stuff from her youth: homework, essays, etc. When she got married and moved out of her mother's house, she had not taken the chest with her. Now the chest is lost forever.

Incidentally, just a few days prior, my mother's sister, my Aunt Lynn, had lamented the same thing about her stuff.

As I have also, but of course, lamented about my stuff. I wrote some good essays, damn it.

Everybody loses shit. No one gets to hold on to their shit forever.

In a moment of waning empathy, I said to my mother as much. And regretted it. I could see the pain on her face. A face distorted by the memory of loss.

If you want to get Buddhist about it, it's all just things. When we die, we are not taking any of it with us. We come to the world alone. And we shall leave it alone. No possession. No attachment.

I remember reading Philip Galane's column in the New York Times called Social Q's a while back, when a reader wrote of an incident of a well-meaning but insensitive neighbor after her house had burned down and she lost everything. When urging her to look forward and move on, the neighbor remarked, "It's just stuff!"

To which she replied, "But it's my stuff!"

Quote 283

The great thing about the music of Richard Strauss is that... it presents to us an example of the man who makes richer his own time for not being of it, who speaks for all generations by being of none. It is an ultimate argument of individuality, an argument that a man can create his own synthesis of time without being bound by the conformities that time imposes.

- Glenn Gould

Quote 282

They talk of my drinking. But never my thirst.

- Scottish proverb

Grub

I recently finished reading the emotional roller coaster of Alyssa Shelasky that is Apron Anxiety. Emphasis on "finished" because at first I was not sure I would.

I didn't think that I liked her, as a character. It's hard to stay the course when you are not invested in the protagonist.

Of course, I questioned why I didn't like her. It comes down to: I'm jealous. She's lived in New York; she's lived in Los Angeles. Same as I. But she's really lived it.

Then there's the dark period of insecurity, incessant crying and drama... OMG why are you revolving around a man, deriving every sense of happiness from him? You're your own person!

I silently scream inside. And judge.

Oh, right. I've done it.

Quite a sobering moment of realization of why her flaws irked me so. We dislike in others what we despite most in ourselves.

She comes out on top, though. Successful. Dignity intact. Whole.

I, on the other hand, am having a bad case of midlife crisis. In the age of a global pandemic and historic civil unrest and activism, I am doing... nothing. 'Cept for the occasional nominal donation. I feel more inert than ever. Paralyzed.

Speaking of paralyzed, I have been reflecting on why I have scarcely been able to cook anything more complicated than a simple noodle soup. Slicing and dicing seems daunting now when in the past it used to soothe me. Can't seem to deal with the chaos, the smells... Sensory issues kicked up a few notches.

I am not a seasoned cook who can whip up something based on what happens to be on hand. I need to plan and shop accordingly. Planning and shopping was the fun part. And now is not the best time to leisurely browse the aisles, not to mention you may not find an ingredient. And it is not advisable to store hop - not exactly an essential activity.

But even before Shelter in Place, it's been a few years... I blame it on the job. I am mentally drained, my soul sucked dry. There is a numbness that is at a pathetic level.

Oh, here we go again. My ex-therapist would not be pleased with the self-loathing.

And thus it hasn't been easy to be on social media where it seems everyone's inner chef has surfaced, cooking and baking up a storm. Everyday I am bombarded by images of their culinary adventures, reminders of what a loser I am.

Since the stay-at-home order, I have maybe seen two posts along the lines of: "It's okay to be doing nothing more than surviving". Is this what I am doing, surviving? Or merely subsisting, forever bound by demons that I cannot even name?

I read recently an article in either the New York Times Magazine or The New Yorker that happiness over one's life span is a U-shaped diagram. Obviously when we are children we are fancy-free and happiness level rates high. As we age, happiness takes a dip while, as they say, life happens. So it would make sense that middle age is the worst part of one's emotional journey. Retirees tend to report much higher degrees of happiness than their middle-aged counterparts.

Ha! So it IS the job!

I hope the paradigm holds true so there is hope yet.

Quote 281

At first we want life to be romantic; later, to be bearable; finally, to be understandable.

- Louise Bogan

Quote 280

Today you said I was reckless.* To be reckless is to abandon safety. But I think maybe it is safety that has abandoned me.

- Sabine de Barra, A Little Chaos

*I may be paraphrasing

Quote 279

When five people speak together, a sixth always has to die.

- Friedrich Nietzsche

Quote 278

[The internet] is designed to coax all of your neural pathways open and then, while they are in a state of ecstatic receptivity, to dump horrible things into them.

- Sam Anderson

Quote 277

Even though you feel like a pebble, you're leaving ripples, and you don't know where those ripples will go.

- Lana Wood

Outreach

I recently discovered the term "the drawing room". What a curious, descriptive marvel! It meant the living room. But why?

"Drawing" was short for "withdrawing". The drawing room was where you would go to withdraw from the hustle and bustle of the world. That's bloody brilliant!

Modern day "withdrawal" has a negative connotation. If you are not social, something is wrong with you. Being an introvert still carries its stigma. Introverts are still very much misunderstood.

And so it gives me great comfort to learn that, not only was withdrawal OK in olden-day England, there was a room for it!

I've thought for a long time, after years of going to open houses, if I were ever to purchase a house, it must have a den. A den with ample natural light where you can sit right by the bay window and lean on the glass and read, or gaze out, or both. But still shielded away from peeping eyes by tall trees. When the wind blows, you bathe in dancing shadows. And all is still, and yet lively.

That's where I would go to withdraw.

Reeling 3

I saw a movie today called Change in the Air. I am starting to feel freer about making these viewing choices (as opposed to feeling like a dreadful commitment, and the pressure of picking something that is not "a waste of time").

Well earlier I did see one that was a complete waste of time, called Love Wedding Repeat. I love weddings. I know, it's such a cliché for women. But weddings have always filled me with hope - not hope that I, too, could be hitched someday, during my most jaded days, but hope, that, humans are capable of love, such depths of love that is the one redeeming quality of humankind. That maybe we are not, as a species, destined for doom.

But this movie, seemingly promising at first, with beautiful people including Olivia Munn, whom I love, had no redeeming quality. It was stupid. Period. Sadly, concluding this half way through, I still needed to know how it ended. Thank goodness for the fast forward button. Trust me when I say the integrity of the film was not lost.

Back to Change in the Air, though. It was a bit slow-paced at first, but there were enough twists to pique one's curiosity. In the end I was pleasantly surprised. It is one of those art house productions that are subject to interpretation. It could be spiritual, religious, paranormal... a little bit of each? Use your imagination. Is it a fairy tale? Does it defy labeling? There will not be one finite answer, but it is thought-provoking and uplifting in a refreshing, non-Hollywood way.

We watched films like this in art school. We were encouraged to discuss our personal take. I loved those assignments. I could easily write an essay (and get an A, too) while others struggle. Symbolism was my cup of tea. I could guess what the writer was thinking and feeling. I could get in character, be those characters, feel the interaction and emotions. To feel abundantly is both a blessing and a curse.

Incidentally, the person who wrote the screenplay of  Change in the Air also directed. What's with writers who feel the need to direct? I guess no other candidate could share their vision quite so.

Mostly I am turning to movies these days, I suppose, to be reminded of what life used to be, when it was "normal". When people could go outside without fearing for their lives. When we weren't all confined in our homes so that we wouldn't kill each other with the simple act of breathing.

My therapist used to say when we use entertainment or a hobby as an escape, even if it is something seemingly innocuous and "healthy" as reading a novel, it can become a crutch. And we are not dealing with the real issue. Well, to that I say, "Pick your battle!" There are worse crutches. Bite me.

Reeling 2

Saw a movie this afternoon that was quite moving, called The Perks of Being a Wallflower. Usually I see "coming of age" in the synopsis and I cringe and run, but Paul Rudd was in it, and I fucking love Paul Rudd, so I went for it.

Really was quite good. Managed to surprise me, which is not easy these days. So kudos to the writer, who had based the screenplay on a book, which he had also written. Oh, and he directed the film, too. Overachieve much? (Ha!)

I like that the characters were believable. The acting was subtle and genuinely connected. My favorite line, of course, was the quote: "You get the love you believe you deserve." SO true. Many of us learned it the hard way.

And my favorite scene, not for the scene itself, but the sentiment, was when the doctor, played by Joan Cusack, assesses the protagonist, and he tells her, "There is so much pain." Not about him, but, "All around."

Being able to observe and feel pain ALL AROUND, in everybody. Relate.

BTW, notice my first line? "A movie that was quite moving". Ha.

That's what a good movie does. It reels you in, and moves you, when you least expect it. (I'm just glad I'm not dead inside.)

My Least Favorite Expressions

6. At the end of the day

5. When you think about it

4. When you really think about it

3. If I’m being honest (Brit: If I am honest)

2. It is what it is.

1. … and whatnot.