where hypotheses come to die (madman101) wrote,
where hypotheses come to die
madman101

Existential Lament

My first year in college was a waste of time and money.  I did have some interesting classes, like film, environmental studies, logic, etc.  But the place was a wasteland.  Second rate state school with second rate students, out in the middle of cornfields.  Imagine that on wind-blown winter days, walking to class.  I wasn't in the world's tallest dorm - or was that the state's tallest? - I was off in a cluster of dorms reserved for derelicts and ne'er-do-wells.  My roommate was a large good-natured guy from a  nowhere Chicago sub-suburb.  He was infatuated with this tiny bowlegged guy down the hall with a big grandiose mouth and a normal sized, albeit middle-aged-looking, girlfriend.  We all and partied, did pot, etc., but it all added to the confusion in me head as to what I was doing there in the first place.


So, my roommate went to live with the tiny bowlegged guy, and I got the latter's roommate, who was a computer geek who liked staring at the fish in his tank.  I took him for a few walks at night, which he liked, but I eventually went crazy and had to get my own room - a single.  Meanwhile, I worked at the library, and had very few acquaintances other than that.  There was a very ugly girl to whom I was nice but, you know...  At that time, I also write a paper on global warming that was important.  Who would have known it would be such a popular topic today?

But, I ended school, and stayed in Ye Olde City, just floating around in a desolate downtown.  I had one apartment in a pointless area where I ate a lot of oranges and painted a tree in my bathroom.  At one point, I also painted myself entirely blue.  I had a job with the city, which was fairly interesting, yet very boring.  Helped with maps, writing things, got to go out in a truck and count traffic, which was awesome.

Another apartment was in the central concrete jungle across the street where my dad got drunk, unbeknownst to me.  One night, while I was in bed, he came by and pissed on my window, laughing.  His illicit girlfriend once opened tyhe door while I was in the middle of my giant living room, (was once a barber shop), playing my harmonica furiously.  She just stared and gasped, and I stopped and looked, and back out she went.

One thing my landlord didn't tell me about that place was that it had the potential to fill up with dirty city flood water.  Which it did, during a big rain.  The whole front was flooded.  I was trapped in the back, in my partially flooded bedroom.  Stanky.  But, I guess that all cleared up, and two friends decided they would like to move in and help me create my creative cafe.  Before long,  they were in the front room chanting prayers and acting like god said they owned the place, so fuck that.  I got in my car, drove away with a bunch of stuff, and found another city and state to live in, making bagel sandwiches and actually having a life.

However, lately, I have been thinking about how wonderful were those days of me, drifting alone in the city - completely alone.  Maybe get a Gyros from the place down the street.  Maybe make some oyster stew.  Drink some sherry.  Go out to a park and do pot with coworkers.  I was so unbelievably lonely back then, and didn't have a clue about my life.  I just wanted to write and do art.  The existential angst commandeered my ability to do anything much that was productive.  I had it so easy.  Reading Camus, Dostoevsky, T.S.Elliott, and so on.  Thinking I don't know what.  "I am revolution walking."

It was pointless.  But it was nice.  It was like there was no time.  I don't even remember money.  Spending days at the library, reading, "Sociology," "Reason," the NYT, and all the science magazines.  Walking down the tracks to another city.  Listening to WXTC, Bob Marley and Ravel.  Writing in my spiral notebook journal, (which reached 2 million words when it was later destroyed by a former friend in Madison).  It was Walden in a hermetically sealed Amerikan nightmare.  Thinking an individual could be relevant simply by living.  And not by fighting for attention, or money, or respect.  It was an experiment to no end.  A search for meaning.  Looking for promises in the shadows of dreams.

How great if I could just go back then - before the CFS, and completely away from people.  I would be such a powerhouse of creativity, knowing what I know today.  I was rich, rich - I didn't see it.  I took it all for granted.  I could have done anything I wanted, in the middle of the richest country in the world - but without love, I was nothing.

That's why they needed their religion.

I think, in general, we all tend to be a bit like this, pacing out our lives by coffee spoons, digging ourselves further and deeper in, until, one day, we pretty much have it the worst it can be, and that's our story done with and over.  Smudged back into the stars.

I've done alright. I'll be alright.
Tags: existentialism, my past
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