metaphysical conceit
To rebel against rebellion: is that like over-editing or like not editing at all? An internal dialogue (monologue?) has taken over. Inspired by Naked Lunch (the movie not the book,) I have to ask: is the editing process stripping me of meaning? or giving me more of it?
Then, as the school and John Donne have taught me to parallel things unparallelable, I think of school as an editing process. Only instead of comas, it's personal edits (though, as a personal neurosis, I take comas very personally.) What I mean to say is that I have to edit my behavior rather than my papers. It's all a matter of formatting. The content is beside the point. It doesn't matter that we all wear what amounts the same thing: jeans, a shirt, a hoodie, a hat. What matters is that hers are from one store, and his are more expensive; that mine show I identify with puffy sleeves, that you like baseball.
And it doesn't matter if you're sick or silly if you miss more than four classes. What matters is that everything is done on time, signed by a notary, approved by the board, and turned in before 7 p.m. Because if you are one minute late, no exceptions, no concessions, you will suffer the consequences.
It would make my life easier to just do it. I know. I know. I know. My teachers and parents repeated it like a mantra: No one can do it for you. We wish we could, but we can't. My eyes would glaze, involuntary, sick to death of the truth I tried to fight. But fighting wasn't working, because to win against it was to fail on purpose. To fight was to do as poorly as possible in spite.
So now, all grown up, making major investments in a recession, I have to edit my rebellion and develop some new structure to satisfy this resentment. But how can you win at a game that sets you up to lose? It's the same reasoning behind going to a casino: attracted like a moth to the flashing neons you flock, remembering a story of a friend of a friend who won big. Inside, distracted by the young women with televisions strapped to their torsos that give you drinks, and drinks and drunk you stumble home confused. And somehow, you never wonder what led you there in the first place.
It's like that monologue from Trainspotting. Something like "choose a home, choose a job, choose a life." But it's like the jeans. We all just go to work to produce a widget our boss sells to get rich. With the money we're allowed we buy shit we don't need that someone else made to make another boss rich. In the meantime, we make a million choices that don't matter in the long run, and few choices that make any real difference. What do you do with that?
Then, as the school and John Donne have taught me to parallel things unparallelable, I think of school as an editing process. Only instead of comas, it's personal edits (though, as a personal neurosis, I take comas very personally.) What I mean to say is that I have to edit my behavior rather than my papers. It's all a matter of formatting. The content is beside the point. It doesn't matter that we all wear what amounts the same thing: jeans, a shirt, a hoodie, a hat. What matters is that hers are from one store, and his are more expensive; that mine show I identify with puffy sleeves, that you like baseball.
And it doesn't matter if you're sick or silly if you miss more than four classes. What matters is that everything is done on time, signed by a notary, approved by the board, and turned in before 7 p.m. Because if you are one minute late, no exceptions, no concessions, you will suffer the consequences.
It would make my life easier to just do it. I know. I know. I know. My teachers and parents repeated it like a mantra: No one can do it for you. We wish we could, but we can't. My eyes would glaze, involuntary, sick to death of the truth I tried to fight. But fighting wasn't working, because to win against it was to fail on purpose. To fight was to do as poorly as possible in spite.
So now, all grown up, making major investments in a recession, I have to edit my rebellion and develop some new structure to satisfy this resentment. But how can you win at a game that sets you up to lose? It's the same reasoning behind going to a casino: attracted like a moth to the flashing neons you flock, remembering a story of a friend of a friend who won big. Inside, distracted by the young women with televisions strapped to their torsos that give you drinks, and drinks and drunk you stumble home confused. And somehow, you never wonder what led you there in the first place.
It's like that monologue from Trainspotting. Something like "choose a home, choose a job, choose a life." But it's like the jeans. We all just go to work to produce a widget our boss sells to get rich. With the money we're allowed we buy shit we don't need that someone else made to make another boss rich. In the meantime, we make a million choices that don't matter in the long run, and few choices that make any real difference. What do you do with that?