Cast in Bronze
I was just watching an episode of Mad Men on NetFlix. 'Twas a season three episode, one of the Conrad Hilton ones. Conrad Hilton had just awoken Don Draper to share a midnight drink and discuss business and the torture of acumen and genius. He said he believed he had a purpose. His purpose was to "bring America to the world."
Then I thought a thousand thoughts in an instant and sat down to type out the gist.
I thought about myself, people mine age, my generation, the millennials…
At first I reflected on mine activity, that perhaps that is all for which we have proven to be useful: consuming and digesting media. Then I thought about the angst of our age. Then I struggled once more with the existential crisis. What purpose?
This week I finally set out to type my first novel, one of many and not the only creative seed I have to grow. I am, pretty much, a nihilist and have no real delusions about purpose. However, I think I have something to contribute to the grand narrative of humanity and civilization. I think I have a lot in me and lot to say, which should be said. The struggle of our time is rooted in past struggles and follies, that of "American Exceptionalism." We were raised to believe we are the best, that anything is possible, that we are the masters of our destinies. That, as it becomes more evident, is only half true.
What I see unfolding is the end of an era about which we are in denial. We talk about it daily, bare our thoughts thereabout, complain thereabout, shake our heads thereabout… yet we truly refuse to believe it. It shows in our behavior; it shows in our stubbornness; it shows in how we fail to let things happen. I reflect upon my situation-educated and underemployed-and walk about dissatisfied but complacent in my company. My situation is important. I have far too much knowledge for where I am in life; I know the history, the philosophy, the art, the achievements and the various perspectives, all rolled up into historiographical tabs. That has no practical use, not in the old world, but it is important because, I think, it can give me the tools I need to tell our story. My first two novels take place under the umbrella of that information and in these difficult, transitional times.
We complain too much, we are too critical and we are unhappy. Not for lack of trying. Let me shed light on, what I think, is the true reason:
I, people mine age, my generation, millennials: we spent our lives readying ourselves for a party to which we are too late. We were raised on the myths and songs and tales and poems and testimonials of a world we expected to inherit. We were exposed to its ugliness and we thought that was all we needed to brace ourselves for any disappointment. However, we were never prepared for this. We were never prepared to enter the parlor for which we were groomed only to see the glasses empty, the ticker tape left upon the rug, the streamers windless and the lights dim. We complain because it is over. All great empires come to an end. We just never thought it would be in our lifetime. I think not that we feel entitled; I think we are sincerely sad. We never want to admit it because we have been conditioned to be so cynical and critical but we are sad we never got to know the America of our books, movies and TV shows. We scoff at the horrors but we revel in the luxury it presented. Every day we mourn the good parts that have run their course. We only have the privilege of apparitions, raised for us by those who were actually there.
The last gasps of a dying empire, the last days of Rome. These exemplars of civilization come and go. So went Athens, so went Rome, so went Great Britain. I almost weep to know of the glory, to have nearly been bathed by its light, only to wake up with my face in a book. The only hope is that they still exist, even without their former glory. There is a lot of clamor for a more bombastic end for a more definitive transition. As time passes and nothing continues to happen, we should realize and accept: we might not have our 1776, our 1789, our 1917 or our 1944. Sometimes these things happen quietly. T.S. Eliot knew that. Maybe we're the hollow people. We squabble among ourselves, we fight for progress; we have been participating in dismantling the apparatus of empire.
Our truest struggle, I think, is in accepting this and moving onward. It is over. America is not the same nor will it ever be again. The time we grew to know is not our time. We must find new avenues and, where none present themselves, begin the hard work of paving new ones. We could be a world of artisans. Our day jobs shall give us our callouses and we can create a new narrative together. If we have learned anything, it is that creativity needn't a monetary reward. We are still independent. We can make our own masterpiece. We may not be entitled to a gilded age but we are entitled to be remembered. After all, we exist by no choice of our own.
So, let the captains run this sinking ship into shallower waters. Let them have these last moments, which were never ours. When we all float to shore, they will see their ship gone and we will see the new world. They will be the ones defenestrating themselves back in '29. We will be on the bread lines, exchanging jokes and watching the sun come up.
Then I thought a thousand thoughts in an instant and sat down to type out the gist.
I thought about myself, people mine age, my generation, the millennials…
At first I reflected on mine activity, that perhaps that is all for which we have proven to be useful: consuming and digesting media. Then I thought about the angst of our age. Then I struggled once more with the existential crisis. What purpose?
This week I finally set out to type my first novel, one of many and not the only creative seed I have to grow. I am, pretty much, a nihilist and have no real delusions about purpose. However, I think I have something to contribute to the grand narrative of humanity and civilization. I think I have a lot in me and lot to say, which should be said. The struggle of our time is rooted in past struggles and follies, that of "American Exceptionalism." We were raised to believe we are the best, that anything is possible, that we are the masters of our destinies. That, as it becomes more evident, is only half true.
What I see unfolding is the end of an era about which we are in denial. We talk about it daily, bare our thoughts thereabout, complain thereabout, shake our heads thereabout… yet we truly refuse to believe it. It shows in our behavior; it shows in our stubbornness; it shows in how we fail to let things happen. I reflect upon my situation-educated and underemployed-and walk about dissatisfied but complacent in my company. My situation is important. I have far too much knowledge for where I am in life; I know the history, the philosophy, the art, the achievements and the various perspectives, all rolled up into historiographical tabs. That has no practical use, not in the old world, but it is important because, I think, it can give me the tools I need to tell our story. My first two novels take place under the umbrella of that information and in these difficult, transitional times.
We complain too much, we are too critical and we are unhappy. Not for lack of trying. Let me shed light on, what I think, is the true reason:
I, people mine age, my generation, millennials: we spent our lives readying ourselves for a party to which we are too late. We were raised on the myths and songs and tales and poems and testimonials of a world we expected to inherit. We were exposed to its ugliness and we thought that was all we needed to brace ourselves for any disappointment. However, we were never prepared for this. We were never prepared to enter the parlor for which we were groomed only to see the glasses empty, the ticker tape left upon the rug, the streamers windless and the lights dim. We complain because it is over. All great empires come to an end. We just never thought it would be in our lifetime. I think not that we feel entitled; I think we are sincerely sad. We never want to admit it because we have been conditioned to be so cynical and critical but we are sad we never got to know the America of our books, movies and TV shows. We scoff at the horrors but we revel in the luxury it presented. Every day we mourn the good parts that have run their course. We only have the privilege of apparitions, raised for us by those who were actually there.
The last gasps of a dying empire, the last days of Rome. These exemplars of civilization come and go. So went Athens, so went Rome, so went Great Britain. I almost weep to know of the glory, to have nearly been bathed by its light, only to wake up with my face in a book. The only hope is that they still exist, even without their former glory. There is a lot of clamor for a more bombastic end for a more definitive transition. As time passes and nothing continues to happen, we should realize and accept: we might not have our 1776, our 1789, our 1917 or our 1944. Sometimes these things happen quietly. T.S. Eliot knew that. Maybe we're the hollow people. We squabble among ourselves, we fight for progress; we have been participating in dismantling the apparatus of empire.
Our truest struggle, I think, is in accepting this and moving onward. It is over. America is not the same nor will it ever be again. The time we grew to know is not our time. We must find new avenues and, where none present themselves, begin the hard work of paving new ones. We could be a world of artisans. Our day jobs shall give us our callouses and we can create a new narrative together. If we have learned anything, it is that creativity needn't a monetary reward. We are still independent. We can make our own masterpiece. We may not be entitled to a gilded age but we are entitled to be remembered. After all, we exist by no choice of our own.
So, let the captains run this sinking ship into shallower waters. Let them have these last moments, which were never ours. When we all float to shore, they will see their ship gone and we will see the new world. They will be the ones defenestrating themselves back in '29. We will be on the bread lines, exchanging jokes and watching the sun come up.