I just wrote an extremely lengthy entry and deleted it. First time I’ve done that.
My reasoning was that it was unsound. Not as a piece of writing, because that’s a fairly arbitrary decision; but as a representation of my own thoughts. I don’t think it did me any good to put out a confused jumble of anger-tinged words. Clarity is the whole goal here. Expression and in a very real sense, catharsis. That’s why this site exists. It’s selfish and ridiculous, but occasionally might have a nugget of truth or goodness in it. And, I do feel the need to remind you, it doesn’t cost any of you anything.
At any rate, in the piece I had just written I was once again puzzling over what I find to be the crux of my position. The key difference between myself and the other adults involved. The problem is that I honed in on a difference, but it wasn’t really the difference at all. In fact, there may not be a “the” difference. Before I get overly confused, I will begin numbering thoughts.
1) I had decided that the chief distinction between myself and the parents was a matter of love. They possess it, quite naturally, for their children. This is no great surprise. Nor is it a surprise that I don’t. I’m not the parent, and have known the children for a month.
2) After de-bunking the biological explanations for parental love, and doing a long-winded exploration of it’s forms throughout time, I discarded it. I examined the child instead. This was a waste of my time and would have been one of yours.
3) My final conclusion was that the children of this generation weren’t innocent. But that it was the fault of the parents, and their generation. This was because the thinkers left when you eliminate anyone who makes reference to the innocence of child… They’re nihilists. Just like the parents. See below for a bit less harsh look.
I realized that this was doing a great disservice to everyone involved. I had mixed personal feelings with attempted social analysis. Admittedly the blog isn’t really the most serious medium of social criticism, but I felt like an ass. Venom and logic don’t get along. There’s no room for bitchiness in a proof.
I can’t help but imagine people reading this and saying things like: “He’s taking this way too seriously” or “It’s just a blog, lighten up.” But I can’t. And the reason I can’t isn’t that it’s a poorly designed website that I spend 20 dollars a year on. Believe me, I see the humor in taking that seriously. The reason is that since arriving here, I have been seemingly blessed with a clarity that has improved my writing and thinking and general well-being. And tonight I felt that shake underneath me. Which is frightening. So in effect, while this might be a bunch of words on a screen, or in a deeper reality a trail of data incriminating my self-importance: it’s an outlet. And one of the only ones I have.
Alright. Now we’re doing well. Of course, now the idea might well be dawning on you that “My God! When I read the blog thingie, he’s… TELLING THE TRUTH!” And all I can say to that is yeah, I am. I had hoped that’s why people bothered reading it (as they actually seem to) in lieu of passing it by for some combination of eBay and pornography. If I recall correctly, that’s the entire rest of the internet. Some combination of commerce and tits. Oh and I suppose the occasional horse penis. Heck, we’ve even got them in here from time to time.
Anyways, that’s lightened me up a bit. I can’t quite seem to shake the distaste for certain aspects of life here. Certain people, certain things. It’s becoming ever-apparent, as well, that it’s generational. After all, I am sandwiched between Gen-X parents and yet-to-be-named-gen kids. I can’t identify with either. The parents are hardened, reformed cynics. They pack away their sarcasm from 9-to-5 in exchange for the payscale, and then stretch out their nihilism in the evening.
Their leftover rebellious mockery gets unleashed at the television, at poorly dressed people on the street. They come off as unpleasant but not horrible. They’re snarky. They think think they’re funny. Sometimes they are. Though not nearly as often as they think. Perpetual critics, they can deftly tear something to shreds without a thought; but find it hard to build.
The children are children. And I do not say that as a good or bad thing. The nuanced definition will have to be contained in that word alone. Children. Beautiful and horrible, heart-breaking in both directions. Creatures of impulse and increasing conditioning.
At first when I was writing about them I found it easier to see them as either brainwashed or lawless. You see them either, frankly, as socialized or innocent. But that’s not really true. It’s a bit of a mad flip-flopping. Within them there’s some unseen power struggle between the internalized parent-voices and the beastly call for excitement. For fun. And you have to respect both, as well as respecting them for having those two in their head and not going completely insane.
In short, they are all human beings. Complicated animals with some visible patterns and some acts that seem out of nowhere. It’s very difficult to know them or predict them. And I have learned a bit of a lesson here. Characterizations and analysis are one thing. Invoking some sort of logical proof that these people are bastards is quite another. And I shouldn’t have done it, if only to keep myself from slipping into madness.
Madness is somewhere I don’t really want to go. It takes you out of touch with reality and causes you to shape the world to your fears. It can be mild, as it would have been in my case (had I gone on believing I had a logical proof that these people are bastards) and it can also range to pure disconnect. I can’t help but shake the feeling that mild madness is a slippery slope to disconnection. A lonely, narcissist place. Where I desperately don’t want to be.
So, clarity retained, writing skills sharpened a bit, I sign off. I realize this wasn’t as fun to read as a long rant of hate would have been, but… I think I’ve been forthright enough for you to understand why. Comment if you will.
RJC
