The horrible and the miserable

For months I've been embittered and unrelentingly pessimistic. There's something about life that does that to a person. When difficult tasks mount and seem to be never-ending, or when hopes get high and they're dashed because whoever had them in their hands lost their grip.

Even with the occasional spotty positivity, it's been hard to transition back into a state of whimsical romanticism - a trait I believe I've always possessed, even as I went through my punk/goth Green Day-loving pre-teen years. I've been spoiled by the feelings of rejection and emptiness.

It only takes one person to change your whole outlook on life. As if their opinions matter, you change the way you see yourself and everyone around you - assuming stereotypes of particular people based on some qualifier. Men are scum is a popular one. And of course there are racist and other offensive alternatives that become a fallback when we feel we've been wronged by someone or something.

But in a few weeks time I've felt myself returning back to that hopeful, if somewhat naive persona. Like whatever part of me had been wronged and turned negative has been reborn and reminded of all the good there is in people.

You'd think it would be hard to bounce back from that. But with the right words or actions at just the right moment, what's past is past and the future is no longer bleak.

Woody Allen's Annie Hall

This morning I watched a two part documentary on Woody Allen. The movie referred back often to the negativity that pervades all of Woody's films. The long tirades on death and lives gone on unfulfilled, the speech in Annie Hall about how life is divided into two groups of people: the horrible and the miserable.

It feels like an easy way out. Like if we just blame it on the universe, we can finally accept that optimism isn't the way to go. That childlike notions no longer carry any weight. We can move on from our own naiveté.

I still agree with Woody to some extent. Sadness is an inexorable part of the human experience. If it didn't exist, neither would humanity. Somehow, just like love and humanity, despair and the human race co-exist. They're givens.

But must we dwell on what makes us upset? Should we allow the people that destroy our lifelong positivity and faith in mankind to maintain power over us?

It's hard to look at that question with any sort of objectivity when you're facing the dilemma that Woody presents - that feeling of a nugatory existence. If something had the power to bring you there, then it's hard to know what can bring you back out again.

You can keep fooling yourself into thinking that you have the power. That's what people kept telling me - by distracting myself from sadness I would finally return back to homeostasis (weird science metaphor, I know. I'm no biologist).

But those people were wrong. Who was right then? The ones who kept annoyingly reminding me that "time heals all wounds."

Now I know they were right.

Even with a few missteps along the way, even with moments of moving forward one space then being pushed back two, it's patience that brings answers and restores equilibrium.

This kind of philosophical discussion can apply to a lot of different problems for a lot of different people. And it's for that reason that I'm not being incredibly specific. I like to think that when I look back on this, I'll only half remember what I was writing about.

With that lack of knowledge, I will forever be able to apply my current wisdom to whatever problems I face in the future, because I can guarantee I will forget it not long after today. New problems will arise. I will retreat back into my shell, forever a "miserable" by the Annie Hall distinction.

Maybe not forever, actually. Because sometimes I'll turn off the Woody Allen documentary and watch Sleepless in Seattle. And the positivity, however mind-numbing and unrealistic, will show me that romanticism still exists - in me and in the world. Just like misery and life go hand-in-hand, so does happiness and existence.

The worst way

When I've lived out a whole morning, afternoon and evening, sitting down at 11:00 pm to write a blog is not really on my agenda. I don't want it to be, anyway. I curse the rotten day that I decided to write an entry every day. I can't even remember when that day was, it seemed to have just happened naturally.

Sometimes I'm at a loss of what to write entirely. As if nothing played any significant role in 24 hours. And it's highly possible that's the case. That perhaps because life can be so boring I'm at such a loss that I'd rather just go to bed than share what's on my mind.

Today is the opposite. Entirely the opposite.

Because I essentially did nothing, and it only makes me want to write all the more. The thing is, I almost forgot. Which would've been the worst thing I've done in quite a while.

When I woke up just now, it was after a day of mostly sleep. Every few hours I've taken periodic naps, not because I'm actually lethargic or tired, but because the alternative would be doing nothing and bearing it while conscious.

On Thursday I ended my internship with some sort of infection/allergy/congestion-type ailment which forced me to drive home on the freeway with a tissue in one hand while my throat croaked out the lyrics to Broadway showtunes on Sirius Satellite Radio. It would've been a pitiful sight to see, but probably quite a funny one too. For me it wasn't funny at the time, but sometimes entertaining myself isn't the primary concern.

Coming home a day earlier than expected - I was supposed to work until Friday - would ordinarily be a blessing. That is, if it was because I'd done something commendable like working an extra day and thus got the Friday off. But no, I missed work on my final day because I'd been graced by the body ache and balloon head fairy. And by balloon-head, I mean my nose and ears were so stuffed up that it felt as if my cranium had been pumped with helium. That is not a condition under which you drive for two hours.

Still, I powered through thinking things couldn't exactly get worse than what they were. At least I'd managed to arrive home safely on Thursday and didn't get into any accidents. It's better to be an optimist in these situations, otherwise you dwell for hours on how you could've done differently.

Then Saturday rolls around and I'm finally feeling well enough to leave the house at the very least. I spend my afternoon trying to contact friends and making plans to go over another friend's house to hang out, catch up and watch a movie.

Since I have no schedule for the rest of the day, I hang around at home as I mentioned before, napping and just relaxing, thinking my evening will be something more interesting. In the evening, I shower before whipping up my own dinner and heading off to the friend's house.

Then I see a little silver spot in my vision. For most people this would indicate having looked into a bright light for too long or something. For me, this is worse. This is a migraine. And I've officially signed my own conviction, sentenced to house arrest for the rest of the night.

I send a message to my friend whose house I'd volunteered for the night to a bunch of my other friends. And instead of dealing with things any more, I just sleep. That's all I can think to do anymore. Sleep.

But it really really stinks. All of this stinks. It reminds me of the week that I left my dorm in June, walking away from the bedroom I've had at school for the past two years for the very last time. But instead of saying the proper goodbye, I departed with my entire body aching and a sore throat that wouldn't quit. I didn't know until a few hours later that I'd somehow contracted strep. But it ruined everything about my final couple of days at school for the year. I didn't even get to hug my friends when we said goodbye.

It makes me wonder sometimes if these reactions are psychosomatic. Like saying goodbye makes me sick so that I don't have to deal with the pressure of leaving. Or like making plans after a long day of doing nothing confuses and stresses my body out, making my unconscious mind force an illness on me to keep me bedridden for the rest of the day.

No matter what the cause, I just feel incredibly bummed out. Mentally and physically. The former because I'm absolutely saddened by the fact that a group of my friends got together tonight and I didn't get to see them, and the fact that I didn't get to experience my last days of work as I should have, and the fact that I walked away from my dorm a few months ago without saying the goodbye I'd like to have. The latter because I've literally been bumming it out for three days. I need to get out of my room, otherwise I think it might stifle me to death.

So that's where I'm at. And it's my reasoning for this blog actually being heaven sent on a day when nothing actually happened. It makes sense, I guess, that when I'm busy I would feel tied down to this thing - my ball and chain if you will - but when I'm free as a bird I take pleasure in getting to blabber on for paragraphs upon paragraphs in the evening.

At least it means I'm doing something worthwhile. The worst way to end the day is thinking you've done absolutely nothing - and if not for writing this, I might've felt that way. But I don't.

An abundance of thoughts

A photo from Red starring Alfred Molina & Jon Groff.

One of the hardest things when coming away from a learning experience is categorizing your thoughts and reflections. If you're like me, you're the kind of person who writes everything down - making sure each of the valuable memories are stored verbatim in a notebook that you slip out of your purse every time a profound quote is said in a stage play or even in real life (but more often in a stage play).

Watching Red reminded me that plays need not be necessarily categorized within a certain subgenre of drama. That even though it is fun to write about everything and connect it to an overarching plot, that it can also be great to just listen and absorb knowledge - especially when said knowledge is all-over-the-place and involves so very many different aspects of humanity.

This is a show about Mark Rothko (played by Alfred Molina). It is highly fictional, yet very poignant and moving - especially if you, like me, went in without knowing whether it had occurred in reality or not (though I guess I've spoiled the fact that it's fictional for anyone who's reading this blog at the moment). The only two characters in the play are Rothko and his assistant (portrayed by Jonathan Groff)(who is responsible for mounting canvas and applying bottom coat primer to the paintings, as well as doing odd jobs for Rothko around the city like grabbing coffee or food).

But the play showed the complexities of the relationship between these two minds, two men who call themselves "artists," and are in a constant battle over issues like culture, evolution/modernism, philosophy, social class, etc.

The whole play involves the two characters arguing with long pregnant pauses. If it can be known for anything though, it's not for the raised voices. It's for the incredibly impassioned speeches.

One of my favorites occurred when the Rothko character talks about why he perceives the color black as something ominous and mysterious. Though his assistant says it is a bland perception considering the widely accepted notion that black represents death and emptiness, Rothko confronts this describing the painting "Belshazzar's Feast" by Rembrandt that hangs in London at the National Gallery.

There's an inscription in the painting which translates from Hebrew to English as "You have been weighed int he balance and found wanting." The words have been inscribed by some deity and are enshrouded by darkness - black.

As Rothko describes it in the play, this is what he considers when he sees the color black. The possibility of failure and the desire to not be "found wanting," but to prove one's destiny before death. It's still a bleak color, but there's more to it than the cliché interpretation of the color black.

The issue of color significance is a topic I've explored in my own writing, including a short story where I began the narrative with the protagonist/narrator explaining how she sees experiences (nouns, adjectives, verbs, etc.) with different colors.

But color and personal meaning behind it wasn't the only interesting topic explored. Another was the infinite question of zeitgeist versus traditionalism.

In Rothko's world, pop art (like that of Lichtenstein or Warhol) is considered a travesty to the field of art. The work, according to Rothko, seemed contrived and commercial. It strove for money. Unlike Rothko, who despite being incredibly successful during his lifetime, was allegedly not in it for the monetary success.

Yet Rothko cited some older artists for his success as a painter, because he claimed himself instrumental in the overthrow of the previous generation of artists to make way for his bunch.

The consideration of time's passing and the effect of that on artwork and artists is one that we don't think of often. Because artwork seems so static and artists so beyond our comprehension (since so many of them are dead), we have to open our minds to different ways of thinking - as if we read science fiction books, but then double the weird.

In Rothko's case, opening up his thought meant letting go of the feelings of confinement in his generation, and rather opening his mind to new types of art that essentially mock the period they came from. (It's not like Warhol was advertising Campbell's Soup, obviously.)

Beyond this, other topics explored included the conflict between heart and head (emotion and intellect) in art, and how the battle is what keeps art alive. Only when the conflict no longer exists does art die, in Rothko's opinion.

The issue of aging is also brought up, as Rothko realizes his years have made it all the more difficult to remain current and not be washed away like the previous generation of artists.

As the assistant states, "Pop art has banished abstract expressionism."

And so the process continues - of dethroning artistic masters and making way for new ones

The wonderful thing about a play like this is that even though it can be hard to find a central point, there are incredible immensities in the text - in the dialogue - that come together like a good painting. With the emotional and the intellectual in conflict, we make our best observations.

Watching Red was like getting insight into reality. Sometimes when I'm cooped up at home I don't feel like I'm part of real life anymore. I lose sight of how things are away from my own dungeon. But then I go to the theater and all these philosophical contemplations on life make me want to reference Nietzsche in every day conversation, or quote Shakespeare to my peers. It's weird to learn so much from watching others learn (and yell at each other). But it made for a great play. That's all that matters anyway.

Morbid curiosity

When I think about my generation, I don't have the same feeling of solidarity that The Who did with theirs. I don't feel the enthusiasm for my years of teenagehood like a lot of others do - and it sets me apart in a kind of silent, but ever-present way. Though I am so fond of the 1990's (and still partake in the cultural norms of that era quite frequently), I evolved into the 2000's a step behind the rest of the people my age.

I don't know what happened during that period of time. As we transitioned out of childhood entertainment and frilly pop music, to a more electronic age masquerading as unsuperficial. Like hipsters of the early '00s, we listened to our new age rock and hip-hop and pretended like we were somehow ahead of the curve. Our taste was superior because it didn't make sense. Nothing was melodic or pleasant anymore. It was all about shock value.

So as someone who prefers the "expected," I retreated into history for my entertainment, even when the future was on everyone else's agenda. I watched TV Land and musicals on tape, I learned most of The Beatles repertoire and tried to pick up classic books rather than Young Adult novels.

And aside from alienating me from the common taste, it also alienated me from that which I admired. Because something always stands in the way of liking something that is antiquated - mortality.

I love to read poetry. There's something really amazing about getting into someone's head through their rhymes. It's not like reading a diary or a blog or an autobiography. There's something more organic about poetry. It gets forced out of your fingers rather than you forcing it.

So reading poetry can feel like getting into someone's mind. Like feeling their presence next to you while you read, telling you how to understand each word, each cadence, each syntactic choice. And if they happen to be gone from this world, then it feels like you're bringing them back to life just by reading them.

This is how I always felt in language arts classes reading Shakespeare. If people asked me to make sense of a line for them, it was almost like as I was sitting in the classroom I was spiritually channeling Will's ghost. Figuratively, anyway. That's how I made sense of his poetry. Logic didn't come into it as much as the spirit.

Yet that doesn't replace this sadness at being born in a generation that doesn't have the luck of interacting with so many great minds. The more years we tack onto our cultural history, the more that gets lost and jumbled. The more we forget.

Just the other day, Marvin Hamlisch, who composed the music to the Broadway musical A Chorus Line. It made me so sad to think that for the last 19 years of my life, I hadn't given a second thought to who composed that musical. Even in the short history of Broadway theater, so many of its greatest creators have already passed on.

Among them are some of my favorites, including Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II, Cole Porter, George Gershwin, Jule Styne, Leonard Bernstein and Jonathan Larson.

In their years working for the stage, they made some of the best music in recorded history. Their songs have touched millions and on a personal level, are some of my most played on iTunes.

Not long before Marvin Hamlisch's death, the incredibly prolific author Gore Vidal also passed away. Hearing of his death was especially shocking for me, since just a few years ago I'd seen him participate in a Q&A at the Los Angeles Festival of Books at UCLA. I knew nothing of the author, and admit that I still only recognize him by a few book titles and his name, and it disappoints me that I didn't take the initiative to read any of his novels during his lifetime.

It can be a rewarding feeling to know that someone you admire is still alive with the possibility of creating more art. I felt this way about Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. and J.D. Salinger, two of my favorite authors, until they passed away fairly recently.

It can also be incredibly sad to think that someone you could have admired if you'd only taken the time to experience their work, has passed away before you could give them your fullest appreciation.

It's kind of a silly concern, since even if you had been a fan of theirs while they were alive, they probably would never have known or cared about your interest. But this is the kind of concern that sets me apart again from the masses of my age group. Or maybe from the masses in general. I tend to be overly emotional and want to feel a personal connection with the art I consume.

I'd probably be better off not feeling so strongly about so many dead people. But if I didn't, then I'd also have lost a lot of great experiences of my life. Like going to John Keats' house in London and feeling the love I have for the poet rush over me with every visit. Or like seeing Mickey Rooney at the airport in London and realizing that this man sitting less than 20 feet away from me knew and worked with Judy Garland. Judy Garland, as in one of my foremost idols from as early as two years old.

These are the things I think about. So while you're all off gallivanting with your copies of Fifty Shades of Grey while listening to Florence and the Machine or who/whatever the heck is popular right now - please don't laugh at me, but I really don't know or care about popular music - I'll start planning my trip to Highgate Cemetery in London. Those are the people I'd most like to see.

Summer wish list

I'm probably getting ahead of myself, what with having two more days at the office this week, but in the spirit of the holidays - and by holidays I mean the whole of summer vacation - I think it's time for me to make a wish list.

This summer most (actually, virtually all) of my time has been compromised. Going to work five days a week and having a long commute in either direction doesn't just mean I'm busy during the day, it means I can't do anything at night. If I do, I don't get enough sleep. If I don't get enough sleep, I wake up exhausted. If I wake up exhausted my drive downtown is difficult. And as you know, Murphy's Law is absolutely 100 percent real. That's what it feels like at 7 am in the morning and 5 pm in the evening anyway.

But in a few days I will be free to roam southern California (within reason, I'm still a hermit/homebody most of the time) as I please. And there are a few things in this area of the world - my childhood home - that I just haven't had the opportunity to enjoy this summer. That must change. This is what and hopefully how:

Homebody becomes beachbody

The beach makes me think of Bluth Frozen Bananas for some reason.

 Even when I'm not busy going to work every day, I have a tendency to pretend that being confined to a house is normal behavior. While other kids are getting out and partying it up, I prefer to sit inside and catch up on my television or watch a new movie on Netflix Instant. This isn't so bad, actually. There's excellent air conditioning, which is a lifesaver on a hot summer day in the Golden State.

But it disturbs me ever-so-slightly that I have been in California for two months now and my only encounter with the Pacific Ocean so far has been from a car window on the 5 freeway.

When I am in Chicago, much of my time is spent looking at the water. My dorm for the past two years has stood less than a five minute walk from Lake Michigan. My friend Dana and I would often take walks along the Lakefill of our school, sitting on the rocks lining the water and talking about everything and anything.

Maybe it's the proximity that has me going to the "beach" of the North Shore so regularly versus the comparative in California, which amounts to a 15-30 minute drive either way just to get to the ocean. It can be a bit daunting to make the drive, especially if you don't have someone to go along with you.

So I need beach buddies. Any takers?

Take me away

Okay, so I guess Florida has beaches too.

The past two summers for me have been filled with great vacations. The summer after I graduated from high school, my literal first step was onto a plane headed for Narita Airport in Japan. I explored the cities of Tokyo, Kyoto, Kamakura and Odawara in eastern Japan with my grandma, learning about my culture and meeting family members I'd never even knew existed.

The following summer I made my way to London for the fourth time, traveling around the city and feeling at home once again on vacation there with my dad.

So two summers with international vacations, and then what do I get this year? Work, work and more work.

That being said, my dad has planned a grand trip after my internship is over. And by grand I mean to Florida. And by Florida I mean to the area around West Palm Beach. And by the area around West Palm Beach, I mean the land of gold Cadillacs and elderly people wading in heated pools. This is not prime vacation territory. Before the end of the summer - which admittedly will be the biggest vacation of the year considering I'll be going abroad for three months for school - I'd like to be able to take some trip more exciting than the one to the hot muggy pastel pink and green land of my grandparents. Maybe San Francisco?

Fair-est one of all

Next to beaches in simplicity as well as necessity of companions are the fairs and events going on in southern California during the summer months. If we're talking specifics, I'm referencing the Orange County Fair and the Sawdust Festival - two events I have frequented in the past, but haven't had the chance to attend this summer (or last summer, come to think of it).

These are great traditions of this state. And they're not rinky-dink affairs, either. They're examples of why California is more than just its all-year-round sun and smog-filled highways. There is culture and excitement here too. You just have to know where to look.

Los Angeles County is also known for its summer events. But because I am an OC kind of a girl, I feel a particular allegiance to the summer events of "my people." I just need to get out to them, somehow. But again, I need friends. Why don't I have friends? Answer: They're all working this summer, just like I am.

You knew it would come to this

Pretty twinkly lights.

There is one thing that I haven't forgotten about this summer. One thing that stands out as the most important part of living in southern California. The raison d'etre that I never forget when I return to this state. And you knew I would get there:

Disneyland.

So far this summer, I've probably only missed one or two weeks. Aside from those, I've gone to the park every weekend and some weekdays with my father, if only to have the chance to stroll around and marvel at the twinkly lights.

If it wasn't for Disneyland, I don't think I'd have any reason to want to live in southern California. The lack of the Happiest Place on Earth would probably result in me forceably relocating all of my relatives to some other state. It would be the only logical choice.

I want to take advantage of my Disney time while I have it. Because I don't plan on living in this area of the world when I am older, these are my prime theme park visiting years. And they're not to go to waste.

So I guess I haven't failed this summer, exactly. Even though I've taken a big bite out of my time with work, I've also made time for what's most important to me. And soon I'll be making time for even more of what's important. Just holding out for two more days.