letting go

not so easy.

the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world

I recently bought (on sale - victory!) and watched Fight Club for the very first time. Having read the book a few times, it wasn't exactly what I expected. There were little variations, but these slight changes didn't accumulate to the point where they undermined the whole plot and/or meaning; they were tasteful and well-placed. Nonetheless, they threw me off the storyline a little, so in the middle of the movie I snatched up my copy of the book and began flipping to the parts I needed a refresher on.

Something jumped out at me as I frantically searched for the bit where Edward Norton's testicles are in danger of being severed. One of the short reviews on the inside cover of the book referred to Fight Club as being "apocalyptic". While this does make sense at some level (after all, the world is taken over by Project Mayhem, all 'rules' of society are ignored, and a few important things explode), I don't think it'd be one of the first words that would come to mind when you look at the entire picture. Anarchy is probably the front runner in that category. How else do you describe the essential domination of the world by an underground organization that has expanded so rapidly and become so much more than itself that it doesn't even have a leader anymore? I think apathy would probably be the next, considering the focus on a philosophy that's something like existentialism and vaguely reminds me of Ayn Rand's objectivism. Everything is insignificant, and the destruction involved is a raw and shocking taunt aimed at society, exposing and rubbing in that meaninglessness. Then comes nihilism. This relates closely to the apathy and is definitely a huge part, especially in relation to self. Thoughts and concerns for any and all aspects of personal well-being are simply not considered, because they are completely unimportant. In fact, just the opposite is encouraged and deemed necessary. Self-destruction is the first step to enlightenment, because once you let go of your delusions of importance and realize that you are truly insignificant, you can find the things that have real meaning and destroy (even if not physically) the rest.

Fight Club is a shocking, thought-provoking, and disturbing portrayal of the scariest thing we as humans can imagine - what we might actually believe, somewhere deep down (it's not that outrageous, if you think about it), what may actually not be some ridiculous idea, but the truth that we've been talked out of all our lives.

"Listen up, maggots. You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You're the same decaying organic matter as everything else."

people

While I was in Colorado, without phone reception (mostly) and without the usual distractions of everyday life, I found myself watching people more closely. Not in a creeper way, though; more of a prolonged observation. I guess the stark setting of the state made me more aware of the people around me. It seemed like everyone was exaggerated, to the point of becoming caricatures of themselves. There was the aging hippie at Fiddler's Green with the pretty face, bare feet, celebratory cigarette (she was there to see Aerosmith and ZZ Top - who wouldn't celebrate?), and crocheted shirt that probably showed too much skin but somehow looked completely natural on her. There was the tired but determined-looking World War II veteran on the airport shuttle, with his khaki cords, a heavy ring with two initials inscribed on it, and a weathered black Camel leather bag. There was the mournful, dark-eyed woman on the same shuttle ride, with an expensive gold cross at her throat and a regal, aquiline nose. There was the middle-aged rich woman on the very same shuttle (believe it or not) who prattled on at an obnoxious volume in her false aristocratic drawl, about everything from 'Daddy' to boat rides and hunting to imitation designer handbags to her genuine designer boots to how the standards of first-class travel have fallen considerably. There was the eternal free spirit chef at an organic diner outside of Nederland, who, gesturing with her be-ringed hands, described how she had lived in Florida, then New York, then Ward (in Colorado), and how she had left at least one ex-husband and a few kids in each. There was the smooth-talking, slightly sunburned barista in a Denver Starbucks who had experienced a long week of work, wanted to know if i was excited for the weekend, and then suavely asked me how I'd picked up an accent so quickly and what I did when I wasn't on vacation in Colorado (nice.). There was the Russian bartender who skillfully (and rather suspiciously) skirted telling us why she had moved out to Colorado between asking us incessantly if we wanted another drink and marching authoritatively around the bar. There was the friendly young girl with unmatched earrings in Nederland who had recently opened up the Buffalo Bill Confectionary, a coffee/candy shop based in one of Buffalo Bill's old railroad cars, who explained to us with a huge grin how she came to visit a friend and 'just kind of stayed'.

It was an interesting trip.

sigh.

you can wear your new white shoes

in the muddy afternoon

walking past the stay-drunk stoop

they whistle with their hands

but i could be your catcall, too

anything you wanna do

anything you wanna do

you can take your slide trombone

play it in the catacombs

find a town that moves real slow

and turn it on its head

and i could be your pharaoh's tomb

anything you wanna do

lover, anything you wanna do

and if you want to be common

i can claim that i tamed you

a demigod in a bonnet

they're gonna know it ain't true

you can paint your nails lime green

rent yourself a limousine

kidnap the professor's niece

let's tell 'em that she's dead

we'll party in a hotel room

anything you wanna do

sister, anything you wanna do

you can get your hair all wet

sleeping on the riverbed

kiss a frog and then dissect

gotta find out what's inside

but you can have my bad side, too

anything you wanna do

sugar, anything you wanna do

and if you want to be common

i can claim that i tamed you

a demigod in a bonnet

they're gonna know it ain't true

and yes, you are king david's star

and the crescent moon, and the crescent moon

you must sweep the bodhi tree

i sit beneath, oh i sit beneath

you can wear your new white shoes

in the dirty afternoon

walking through the traffic fumes

a flower in your hair

and i will swing upon your moods

anytime you want me to

just tell me what you wanna do

anything you wanna do

lover, anything you wanna do

White Shoes by Conor Oberst

wilco will love you, baby

The concert was (unsurprisingly) amazing. I preached at you last time I went to a Wilco concert, and I'm going to shamelessly do the same thing again. Everyone should see Wilco live at least once in their lifetime.

Every time I go to a show, I love everything a little more.

the long and short of it

I've decided it's time that I finally try to explain why it is I think running is so very valuable. After extensive discussion with Ciera, I think I might be halfway prepared. So here's at least part of it...here it goes.

Running is very much a huge, extended metaphor for life. If you decide to get up early to get a run in, that's up to you. You set the alarm, you haul your sorry ass out of bed, you tie your shoes, and you take those first few reluctant strides. When you set a goal in running, that's up to you, too. You can choose to train hard, add in new workouts, and do everything in your power to achieve it. If you don't reach it, it's simply no one's fault but your own. The actual running itself provides the best alignment to life. You choose to speed up, to slow down, to give up, to keep going. Sometimes you push it too hard and hurt yourself, and sometimes you take it way too easy and lose weeks of hard work. No one is telling you what to do when you're on a run - you are entirely and wholly on your own. Whatever you do, whatever happens during that run, is a direct result of nothing other than you. You can't blame it on anything else, and you can't give credit to anything else.

What it all boils down to is a very simple pre-school lesson: you are in charge of you. That's running, and that's life.

live in concert

There is a certain amount of prestige and pride associated with attending a concert. That unique atmosphere of anticipation, excitement, and smug satisfaction is unfailingly found at every concert worth going to - and for good reason. Something about seeing musicians perform live is pleasantly shocking and ridiculously uplifting. You finally see for yourself the passion and genuine thrill they get from music, and this in itself is a validation; permission to be as absorbed and in love with their music as they are. It sounds ridiculous, but it's confirmation that the people who wrote and played the music you take to heart do, in fact, exist. The indulgence of listening directly to the songs or albums that have served as your own personal soundtrack is almost overwhelming, and entirely necessary. Music has a terrifying ability to overthrow any current emotion with ease, for better or otherwise, and hearing it performed live amplifies this power tenfold; you know you're finally hearing it as the musician wants you to hear it, and nothing is more beautiful than that simple truth. Having seen Wilco, I can testify firsthand. That wasn't a very cleverly disguised name drop, but you should still listen to them.

I guess what made me think of all this was Kaitlin's ongoing countdown of "Days Until We Are In the Same Room With Conor Oberst" and my inversely-proportionate ratio of excitement to the number of days left. Really, whoever thought of pairing Conor with Wilco, beautiful people with beautiful music, I love you. Congrats on being an utter genius.