something short...
“and what’s it even mean to you,” she said, steadying her glass of wine with her many-ringed fingers, “if you fail? What’s that even mean?”
I sat there. I hesitated. It seemed so simple. Why’s she even asking? It is simple. I fail if I… and put into the conditional, it’s no longer simple. I can’t explain it any more. I don’t have the words to explain it.
“I fail if I… I fail if I end up doing something I hate.”
She took a sip of her wine, and with her free hand, she made circular gestures in the air. My answer wasn’t good enough.
“Okay, okay,” she said. The wine stuck in her throat. “Give me a second.” She cleared her throat violently. “Continue.”
I sat there again. I hesitated. I fail if I…
“Maybe it’s… it’s more abstract, you know?” I offered.
“No, I don’t. Explain.” Another sip of wine.
“Like, maybe it’s more than, I don’t know, a singular action. Maybe it’s a whole bunch of things.”
She smiled, “OK, OK, amusing, my friend. So you’re saying there are a whole slew of things that constitute failure, right?”
“Yes,”
“and you’re worried about all of them coming together. Lining up, so to speak. Like a slot machine?”
“I guess so.”
She laughed, violently. “that’s great. That is so great. You know, people walk around waiting for some string of lucky things to happen… finding some great guy or girl, having a child, getting a scholarship, getting a great job… but not you. You wait for all the unlucky things. You wait for them to line up, like a slot machine.”
I felt stupid. It wasn’t that simple... But how could I express that?
“It’s not that simple,” I offered pathetically.
She laughed again. Another sip of wine.
Suddenly, filled with courage, I grabbed her hand. I lifted upward, inspecting it. I adjusted one of her rings. It was a plain silver band, with some worn-off inscription.
“You got some cute allegory to share, for your rings, too, huh?” I asked, angrily.
“What?” she was still laughing. I wasn’t laughing. She looked at me straight in the eyes. In a second her expression sobered up. “Really, what are you saying?” she asked again.
“I don’t know. I’m not as poetic, I guess. Are these rings symbolic of all the things lining up too? All the unlucky things I’m waiting for?”
She half-smiled. “Don’t be so dramatic, okay? I’m just showing you how ridiculous your fears are. Your fear of failure. You don’t even know what it is. You can’t tell me. That’s all I’m saying.”
I dropped her hand, and it fell limp between her legs. She took another sip of wine and shook her head.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Directions (Dichotomy of thought)
I've been rediscovering the genius of Joanna Newsom lately. I can't stop listening to her music... listening to this strange music and pondering my self-indulgent little life.
OVERLY-POETIC PONDERING: I feel this growing restlessness inside of me. I feel lucidity returning to me. I’m still confused, of course. When aren’t I? but there is still clarity. A million things which were once so cosmic and illogical become somewhat reasonable upon further inspection. There is still mystery. There is always mystery. Without mystery, life would not be worth living. But I can understand things, a bit better.
And it’s not so much about being remembered forever, but about dedicating your life to something. Dedicating this undirected energy, this passionate love, to some singular object. And perhaps recognition comes naturally. And if it doesn’t, I’m not sure if I care. A million people kill themselves and others trying to climb across the sweaty backs of the human herd. But to step away from the herd; to work quietly and diligently in the forest, who can hold that against you? Anyone can become famous; Hollywood has taught us that well. Talent, intelligence, kindness, love--these traits we value most--are not necessary to become recognized.
But that is besides the point. What is more satisfying than chasing a passion endlessly? Than dedicating every atom of energy to some object in mind?
Perhaps passion and recognition, they coincide, as I’ve said before. But the latter doesn’t even matter, don’t you understand?
Look at van Gogh, at Emily Dickinson, at Jane Austen. These people weren’t properly recognized for their genius in their time. But that didn’t deter any of them.
And no, this is not another declaration about misunderstood genius, or about posthumous fame. All I'm saying is that true passion is infinitely more important than recognition. Many people are recognized for their achievements; far fewer understand true passion.
And if only I could find that singular object worthy of all my energies--physical, intellectual, creative. I will eventually. I hope. If I don’t, I fail. This is failure--not merely to chase a passion only to find out it is not your true passion, but to never find a passion in the first place. To me, this is an even greater failure than simply making a mistake, because you couldn't let go of your pride for one instant to explore, to go out on a limb, to experience failure temporarily. You couldn't just step aside and say "I'm not sure yet;" you had to put up the front of the eternal over-achiever, full of the typical pretentious affectations, full of typical "well-rounded" talents and abilities.
REALISTIC SIDE NOTE: Sometimes this whole passionate "Soul-searching" reminds me an awful lot of the dating scene itself... You spend some time with a field. You invest yourself into it. You try to imagine the rest of your life with it. and then, upon deciding it's not for you, you might feel regret and fear.
and maybe once, you find some field that you are absolutely in love with, and so you pour all your time, energy, and money into it, only to find that for some reason, it doesn't work--you can't get a job with it; it's full of superficial people; you're not wanted. It "rejects" you, so to speak.
and then you imagine spending the rest of your Thanksgivings alone and sad inside Johnny V's... well, maybe that last bit is something that only happens in the dating scene. (or at least in my own brain) but you get the picture...
OVERLY-POETIC PONDERING: I feel this growing restlessness inside of me. I feel lucidity returning to me. I’m still confused, of course. When aren’t I? but there is still clarity. A million things which were once so cosmic and illogical become somewhat reasonable upon further inspection. There is still mystery. There is always mystery. Without mystery, life would not be worth living. But I can understand things, a bit better.
And it’s not so much about being remembered forever, but about dedicating your life to something. Dedicating this undirected energy, this passionate love, to some singular object. And perhaps recognition comes naturally. And if it doesn’t, I’m not sure if I care. A million people kill themselves and others trying to climb across the sweaty backs of the human herd. But to step away from the herd; to work quietly and diligently in the forest, who can hold that against you? Anyone can become famous; Hollywood has taught us that well. Talent, intelligence, kindness, love--these traits we value most--are not necessary to become recognized.
But that is besides the point. What is more satisfying than chasing a passion endlessly? Than dedicating every atom of energy to some object in mind?
Perhaps passion and recognition, they coincide, as I’ve said before. But the latter doesn’t even matter, don’t you understand?
Look at van Gogh, at Emily Dickinson, at Jane Austen. These people weren’t properly recognized for their genius in their time. But that didn’t deter any of them.
And no, this is not another declaration about misunderstood genius, or about posthumous fame. All I'm saying is that true passion is infinitely more important than recognition. Many people are recognized for their achievements; far fewer understand true passion.
And if only I could find that singular object worthy of all my energies--physical, intellectual, creative. I will eventually. I hope. If I don’t, I fail. This is failure--not merely to chase a passion only to find out it is not your true passion, but to never find a passion in the first place. To me, this is an even greater failure than simply making a mistake, because you couldn't let go of your pride for one instant to explore, to go out on a limb, to experience failure temporarily. You couldn't just step aside and say "I'm not sure yet;" you had to put up the front of the eternal over-achiever, full of the typical pretentious affectations, full of typical "well-rounded" talents and abilities.
REALISTIC SIDE NOTE: Sometimes this whole passionate "Soul-searching" reminds me an awful lot of the dating scene itself... You spend some time with a field. You invest yourself into it. You try to imagine the rest of your life with it. and then, upon deciding it's not for you, you might feel regret and fear.
and maybe once, you find some field that you are absolutely in love with, and so you pour all your time, energy, and money into it, only to find that for some reason, it doesn't work--you can't get a job with it; it's full of superficial people; you're not wanted. It "rejects" you, so to speak.
and then you imagine spending the rest of your Thanksgivings alone and sad inside Johnny V's... well, maybe that last bit is something that only happens in the dating scene. (or at least in my own brain) but you get the picture...
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The nervous system
People think writing is so easy. You just think the words in your head and put them on paper--as opposed to, say, visual art, in which you must first dream up a visual image and then summon complex, intricate muscle movements to bring it to actualization. In simpler words, people assume that in writing, there is no middle-man; that it is a simple input-output equation.
But in reality, it’s never that simple. Because in my brain I don’t always just think in words or complete phrases; there are complex feelings and colors and sounds and tastes that resonate in my skull and ask for translation onto paper. It’s sort of like the reverse of the nervous system. Normally, colors and sounds and tastes exist as energy in the external world, and your nervous system translates this energy into chemical messages for your brain to understand. In my case, I become the nervous system for the outside world. Inside my head, colors and images and sounds and moments and phrases echo back and forth as meaningless pieces of energy and electric impulses; but it is my task, as a writer, to translate these things into coherent verbal information.
I guess this is a roundabout way of saying that for some reason, I haven’t been writing as much as possible. I used to merely get the impulse and write immediately, even if it was a worthless whining poem or an over-intellectualized essay (like this). I have so many things I wish to write about, but it’s going to take some intense concentration and organization to write coherently. So many things pass through my periphery, and I want to write them all. But it takes time. I’m unworried. I am starting to feel more confidence in myself as a writer, though the struggle and the fear still persist. The struggle to make my brain sit still and write; the fear that I don’t have the talent to write. I battle them; they battle me; they battle each other. It will take time, like everything else. It’s taken hundreds and hundreds of blog entries and journal scribblings and awful teenage poems to reach the lucidity I claim now. I don’t regret a single angst-filled line, because every time I wrote, I understood something new about myself and the world; and ultimately, it’s made me a better writer.
The future is huge and luminescent. Anxiety is omnipresent.
But in reality, it’s never that simple. Because in my brain I don’t always just think in words or complete phrases; there are complex feelings and colors and sounds and tastes that resonate in my skull and ask for translation onto paper. It’s sort of like the reverse of the nervous system. Normally, colors and sounds and tastes exist as energy in the external world, and your nervous system translates this energy into chemical messages for your brain to understand. In my case, I become the nervous system for the outside world. Inside my head, colors and images and sounds and moments and phrases echo back and forth as meaningless pieces of energy and electric impulses; but it is my task, as a writer, to translate these things into coherent verbal information.
I guess this is a roundabout way of saying that for some reason, I haven’t been writing as much as possible. I used to merely get the impulse and write immediately, even if it was a worthless whining poem or an over-intellectualized essay (like this). I have so many things I wish to write about, but it’s going to take some intense concentration and organization to write coherently. So many things pass through my periphery, and I want to write them all. But it takes time. I’m unworried. I am starting to feel more confidence in myself as a writer, though the struggle and the fear still persist. The struggle to make my brain sit still and write; the fear that I don’t have the talent to write. I battle them; they battle me; they battle each other. It will take time, like everything else. It’s taken hundreds and hundreds of blog entries and journal scribblings and awful teenage poems to reach the lucidity I claim now. I don’t regret a single angst-filled line, because every time I wrote, I understood something new about myself and the world; and ultimately, it’s made me a better writer.
The future is huge and luminescent. Anxiety is omnipresent.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
stable song
Time for the final bow
Rows of deserted houses
All our stable mates highway bound
I logged onto Facebook just a while ago, and I noticed that my friend Sara from Madison had posted these lyrics as her status a few days ago. I thought about how appropriate it was, at the end of the semester... everybody in Turner House packing up and moving away... but I had already done so, back in December. and my disappearance had already evaporated and faded into the old cracked walls; it would go unmourned during the final move-out.
and for a second, I think back to the first day at Madison... the sweaty, confusing bustle of things. all the mysterious people whose faces and names blended into each other. how awkward I was--perhaps we all were. the first conversations. the "ice-breakers" and the first look around. the first laughs, jokes. the awkward meetings between the parents... noticing someone else with the same futon as you, same guitar, same T-shirt...
for some reason, it just left me feeling so nostalgic and poignant, and I again started to consider all the people I had loved and lost in my life. it made me kind of sad, and now I start to wonder if I've done something wrong. if perhaps I've pushed people away because they didn't meet my expectations... my cinematic, overly-romantic visions of comradery and friendship.
perhaps my life was just bound to take on a lonelier path after that first fateful semester in Fall. who knows.
I just feel kind of sad, I do honestly miss the friendships I had in Turner House. I do regret that I didn't stay and see what could have bloomed.
but there were other reasons. I needed to come to Milwaukee. I needed to dissolve the image of it being the picture-perfect city for me, of it being the picture-perfect college for me. I needed to come here and find out that no, it was not all it was cracked up to be.
but then again, what really is? and I just seem to be approaching circular thinking here, running into that irritating old adage: "the grass is always greener..."
words can't really express what I'm trying to get at here, and if I keep rambling, I'll only lose the beauty and the fragility of the true emotion. I'm just filled with this sort of awe and this heavy sense of nostalgia. a longing for the perfect past... yes, always the perfect past... flaws become insignificant or invisible from a distance.
Rows of deserted houses
All our stable mates highway bound
I logged onto Facebook just a while ago, and I noticed that my friend Sara from Madison had posted these lyrics as her status a few days ago. I thought about how appropriate it was, at the end of the semester... everybody in Turner House packing up and moving away... but I had already done so, back in December. and my disappearance had already evaporated and faded into the old cracked walls; it would go unmourned during the final move-out.
and for a second, I think back to the first day at Madison... the sweaty, confusing bustle of things. all the mysterious people whose faces and names blended into each other. how awkward I was--perhaps we all were. the first conversations. the "ice-breakers" and the first look around. the first laughs, jokes. the awkward meetings between the parents... noticing someone else with the same futon as you, same guitar, same T-shirt...
for some reason, it just left me feeling so nostalgic and poignant, and I again started to consider all the people I had loved and lost in my life. it made me kind of sad, and now I start to wonder if I've done something wrong. if perhaps I've pushed people away because they didn't meet my expectations... my cinematic, overly-romantic visions of comradery and friendship.
perhaps my life was just bound to take on a lonelier path after that first fateful semester in Fall. who knows.
I just feel kind of sad, I do honestly miss the friendships I had in Turner House. I do regret that I didn't stay and see what could have bloomed.
but there were other reasons. I needed to come to Milwaukee. I needed to dissolve the image of it being the picture-perfect city for me, of it being the picture-perfect college for me. I needed to come here and find out that no, it was not all it was cracked up to be.
but then again, what really is? and I just seem to be approaching circular thinking here, running into that irritating old adage: "the grass is always greener..."
words can't really express what I'm trying to get at here, and if I keep rambling, I'll only lose the beauty and the fragility of the true emotion. I'm just filled with this sort of awe and this heavy sense of nostalgia. a longing for the perfect past... yes, always the perfect past... flaws become insignificant or invisible from a distance.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
temps perdu
I've come home to Muskego for the weekend, and I am on the verge of another "Proustian" epiphany. I feel something akin to happiness inside of me, but I won't allow myself to recognize it as such... Or, more accurately, the logical half of my brain won't allow me to recognize it as such. It wants to rehash and recount all the things that are indelibly wrong with my life. My self-consciousness, my uncertain future, the thoughts of my peers, society's endless flaws, the depravity of mankind... but for a moment, I forget it.
It is lost in the scent of spring, in the beautiful onset of summer. Yesterday I was walking down the sidewalk near my high school, just as it began to rain. and all around me life smelled so beautiful... I probably looked insane, taking in huge gulps of air through my mouth and my nostrils, trying to absorb the fragrance as much as possible. The smell of the rain, the smell of spring...
and here at home, scents of a spring gone past greet me everywhere; hiding in corners, in window sills, in liquid soaps on the bathroom counter top. I actually brought my hands to my face after washing them, just to savor the smell of the soap... because this soap reminds me of last summer, of writing folk songs in my room, and performing them at Potbelly... because this gust of wind reminds me of the freedom of last summer... because this juice in the fridge reminds me of some other ancient memory... and more and more my involuntary memory envelops me in waves and waves of epochs gone by.
again, I look out the window, and take in another huge gulp of air. and still, I feel something akin to happiness within me... the sounds of my family, my mother's infinite selflessness, the sun, the suburban streets...
I think I really need to read Remembrance of Things Past in its entirety.
It is lost in the scent of spring, in the beautiful onset of summer. Yesterday I was walking down the sidewalk near my high school, just as it began to rain. and all around me life smelled so beautiful... I probably looked insane, taking in huge gulps of air through my mouth and my nostrils, trying to absorb the fragrance as much as possible. The smell of the rain, the smell of spring...
and here at home, scents of a spring gone past greet me everywhere; hiding in corners, in window sills, in liquid soaps on the bathroom counter top. I actually brought my hands to my face after washing them, just to savor the smell of the soap... because this soap reminds me of last summer, of writing folk songs in my room, and performing them at Potbelly... because this gust of wind reminds me of the freedom of last summer... because this juice in the fridge reminds me of some other ancient memory... and more and more my involuntary memory envelops me in waves and waves of epochs gone by.
again, I look out the window, and take in another huge gulp of air. and still, I feel something akin to happiness within me... the sounds of my family, my mother's infinite selflessness, the sun, the suburban streets...
I think I really need to read Remembrance of Things Past in its entirety.
Monday, April 19, 2010
"Finally there is clarity; this tiny life is making sense..."
Hola, Blog.
Life is going swell. I have no philosophical or esoteric outpourings for today. Just simple facts. (at least, that's my plan. somehow I always end up writing some prolonged dissertation on my absurd little life...)
So, I've finally made a firm decision:
I am NOT becoming an RA. but I am, however, going to work at Captel, :) which is a phone-captioning service for hard-of-hearing folks--and coincidentally, a company that provides employment for a large percentage of the student body at UWM. It's been a rough and tumultuous decision, but overall, it makes the most sense. My parents had already offered to pay for housing for my first two years. A majority of one's compensation as an RA is free housing (around a $5000 value)... the rest consisting of a free meal plan and a monthly stipend of $250. This is excellent, but if my parents offered to pay, why not take advantage of it? My dad told me that he would not necessarily be able to help in future years, to make up for the money he saved while I was an RA. The risk didn't seem worth it... Besides, working at Captel, I can actually begin to save money for the future. I can't "save" my free housing for the future...
I may still become an RA in the future (even though I've become pretty disgusted with the behavior of my fellow residents).
It all depends.
As far as majors, things are clearing up a bit.
Basically, I have it narrowed down to two broad categories:
either language or music.
This helps, but it still doesn't remove the gravity of the decision. I'm still conflicted. but at least the options aren't as staggering as they once were.
My most grandiose dream is this:
to major in French and Applied Linguistics, and then become a teacher of English in France. that would be incredible... whether or not it's plausible, I'm not sure.
last Monday, as my father was driving me back to school, I was talking about majors again. something slipped out of my mouth which inadvertently clarified things:
"I wouldn't mind remaining in academia for the rest of my life."
it's strange, once I put that feeling into words, my existence felt a bit more clear... as though I had finally chosen a path.
For a long time, I wanted to admit that being a professor and basically remaining in school forever would be a pretty fantastic thing. I wouldn't admit it, because I was so caught up in doing something "tangible" for the world. and who can blame me? my father's an engineer. Every time I brought up majoring in something abstract like Literature or a foreign language or Linguistics, he'd always raise an eyebrow, and question the validity of such degrees.
But I just know that I have an undying passion for learning, and that I really do want to learn for the rest of my life. and, the best way to continue learning is by teaching.
so, perhaps, I've come full circle.
but who really knows what the future holds for me?
all I have is my passion and my curiosity. As long as I have that, I'm set.
"This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy."
-Bernard Shaw
ALSO: MAY I JUST REITERATE HOW UPSET I AM when I find that my posts are spammed by weird Asian websites?!?! I get so excited, because I see that one of my posts has a comment. unfortunately, I just get a weird message in characters that I can't understand, directing me to some porn website... :(
Life is going swell. I have no philosophical or esoteric outpourings for today. Just simple facts. (at least, that's my plan. somehow I always end up writing some prolonged dissertation on my absurd little life...)
So, I've finally made a firm decision:
I am NOT becoming an RA. but I am, however, going to work at Captel, :) which is a phone-captioning service for hard-of-hearing folks--and coincidentally, a company that provides employment for a large percentage of the student body at UWM. It's been a rough and tumultuous decision, but overall, it makes the most sense. My parents had already offered to pay for housing for my first two years. A majority of one's compensation as an RA is free housing (around a $5000 value)... the rest consisting of a free meal plan and a monthly stipend of $250. This is excellent, but if my parents offered to pay, why not take advantage of it? My dad told me that he would not necessarily be able to help in future years, to make up for the money he saved while I was an RA. The risk didn't seem worth it... Besides, working at Captel, I can actually begin to save money for the future. I can't "save" my free housing for the future...
I may still become an RA in the future (even though I've become pretty disgusted with the behavior of my fellow residents).
It all depends.
As far as majors, things are clearing up a bit.
Basically, I have it narrowed down to two broad categories:
either language or music.
This helps, but it still doesn't remove the gravity of the decision. I'm still conflicted. but at least the options aren't as staggering as they once were.
My most grandiose dream is this:
to major in French and Applied Linguistics, and then become a teacher of English in France. that would be incredible... whether or not it's plausible, I'm not sure.
last Monday, as my father was driving me back to school, I was talking about majors again. something slipped out of my mouth which inadvertently clarified things:
"I wouldn't mind remaining in academia for the rest of my life."
it's strange, once I put that feeling into words, my existence felt a bit more clear... as though I had finally chosen a path.
For a long time, I wanted to admit that being a professor and basically remaining in school forever would be a pretty fantastic thing. I wouldn't admit it, because I was so caught up in doing something "tangible" for the world. and who can blame me? my father's an engineer. Every time I brought up majoring in something abstract like Literature or a foreign language or Linguistics, he'd always raise an eyebrow, and question the validity of such degrees.
But I just know that I have an undying passion for learning, and that I really do want to learn for the rest of my life. and, the best way to continue learning is by teaching.
so, perhaps, I've come full circle.
but who really knows what the future holds for me?
all I have is my passion and my curiosity. As long as I have that, I'm set.
"This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy."
-Bernard Shaw
ALSO: MAY I JUST REITERATE HOW UPSET I AM when I find that my posts are spammed by weird Asian websites?!?! I get so excited, because I see that one of my posts has a comment. unfortunately, I just get a weird message in characters that I can't understand, directing me to some porn website... :(
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Fancy words, cyclical thoughts.
Decide.
It’s a much harsher word than you expect. Originates from Latin. The “-cide” ending basically indicates some kind of cutting off or “killing.” You’ll note it in other words such as “suicide,” (killing oneself) “homocide,” (killing someone else) “parricide,” (killing one’s parents)… the list goes on and on. So how does it apply to our harmless little verb “decide”? Good question. When combined with the prefix “-de,” (a French preposition meaning “from”) the etymological meaning of the word runs something like “to choose from,” or “to cut off from.” The actual action of “deciding” is interpreted as choosing one destiny by cutting off (“killing”) the other. It sounds pretty drastic, but, on the whole of it, it’s pretty damn accurate. It makes that harmless little verb so much more difficult and scary. I am not merely picking one option over another; I am in fact killing off the other path, so that it can never live again! How frightening! I don’t want to burn all bridges; I want to make one decision in hopes that, if necessary, some other decision may be brought to life. I can’t kill it off completely! How drastic!
But then again, this is all cyclical, and points back to my desire for everything, my love of life, my ceaseless curiosity. Last night I was lying in bed, thinking about all the things I want. The list was endless… I can’t have everything. I must kill some destinies, let them lie sleeping forever. Some were never meant to be.
But I can’t! I can’t make a decision! I want to always have the freedom! I want a little bit of everything. No, I want a lot of everything. I want it all…
And thus, my conundrum…
I am still reconsidering the RA position, despite having turned in the acceptance form. I can still back out, but I’m afraid of the repercussions. It may mean not being hired by University Housing in the future. But I can’t say that for sure. Some friends have told me that they’ll appreciate my ability to step down, and to understand that perhaps I should not, at this point in my life, have this job.
I wish I could list all the pros and cons, but I’ve done so endlessly, and concretely outlining them doesn’t seem to have any intrinsic value. It would just heighten the confusion. I know this isn’t as huge of a deal as choosing a major (don’t even get me started on that), but it’s just another example of my inability to make firm decisions. The second I have chosen something, I second-guess it ad nauseum, until I question what I even wanted in the first place. It’s sickening. I don’t need help doing the things I do. I do many things very well. I just need help choosing what to do. Sometimes I long for the days when everything was in fact spelled out for you… you would do what your father did, on the same land, in the same place, forever. It sounds so terrible now, but the infinite choices are sometimes just as scary. I love the freedom. It’s nice to be able to choose whatever I want. At the same time, it’s overwhelming.
It’s a much harsher word than you expect. Originates from Latin. The “-cide” ending basically indicates some kind of cutting off or “killing.” You’ll note it in other words such as “suicide,” (killing oneself) “homocide,” (killing someone else) “parricide,” (killing one’s parents)… the list goes on and on. So how does it apply to our harmless little verb “decide”? Good question. When combined with the prefix “-de,” (a French preposition meaning “from”) the etymological meaning of the word runs something like “to choose from,” or “to cut off from.” The actual action of “deciding” is interpreted as choosing one destiny by cutting off (“killing”) the other. It sounds pretty drastic, but, on the whole of it, it’s pretty damn accurate. It makes that harmless little verb so much more difficult and scary. I am not merely picking one option over another; I am in fact killing off the other path, so that it can never live again! How frightening! I don’t want to burn all bridges; I want to make one decision in hopes that, if necessary, some other decision may be brought to life. I can’t kill it off completely! How drastic!
But then again, this is all cyclical, and points back to my desire for everything, my love of life, my ceaseless curiosity. Last night I was lying in bed, thinking about all the things I want. The list was endless… I can’t have everything. I must kill some destinies, let them lie sleeping forever. Some were never meant to be.
But I can’t! I can’t make a decision! I want to always have the freedom! I want a little bit of everything. No, I want a lot of everything. I want it all…
And thus, my conundrum…
I am still reconsidering the RA position, despite having turned in the acceptance form. I can still back out, but I’m afraid of the repercussions. It may mean not being hired by University Housing in the future. But I can’t say that for sure. Some friends have told me that they’ll appreciate my ability to step down, and to understand that perhaps I should not, at this point in my life, have this job.
I wish I could list all the pros and cons, but I’ve done so endlessly, and concretely outlining them doesn’t seem to have any intrinsic value. It would just heighten the confusion. I know this isn’t as huge of a deal as choosing a major (don’t even get me started on that), but it’s just another example of my inability to make firm decisions. The second I have chosen something, I second-guess it ad nauseum, until I question what I even wanted in the first place. It’s sickening. I don’t need help doing the things I do. I do many things very well. I just need help choosing what to do. Sometimes I long for the days when everything was in fact spelled out for you… you would do what your father did, on the same land, in the same place, forever. It sounds so terrible now, but the infinite choices are sometimes just as scary. I love the freedom. It’s nice to be able to choose whatever I want. At the same time, it’s overwhelming.
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