Muddled Lunch Rant #5

They'd have you believe that after your 30th year life stops being a confusing merry-go-round, that your nagging youthful ambitions gracefully peel away to reveal a mature, refined contentment. The time for dreaming is over. Perhaps for some, these things are true. I tend to believe they are a myth -- a hoax, like retirement -- perpetrated upon us all to insure that we remain passively drinking from the same bland well of the status quo, where the only ambition is just to make it to another Friday so you can spend all your money on Pabst and hollywood and aoltimewarnergeffendreamworksj-lo and be mollified by the folly and entertainment they provide, and the world is seen and interpereted solely through the same infotainment lens so that on Monday morning you and your co-workers can gather around the water cooler and feel the camaraderie of reciting the same buzz-words & song lyrics & political slogans; feeling comfortable with being consumers, living in this the best of all possible worlds for consumption, unaware of all the time lost and the talent wasted. For the content consumer, producers are worshiped as the new gods, as immortal and unattainable as the Titans on Olympus, regardless of whether what they forge is absolute shit or not -- Just keep it coming so I don't remember any of the lofty, ridiculous goals I set for myself at age 16.

For others, the anxiety & restlessness & the drive to create something of their own never ends, whether they're a corporate executive or a Pulitzer-winning writer or a cashier. Was Fitzgerald content after writing Gatsby? I am lucky to have a great job where I am paid for my creative imput, and yet, I've never been so dissatisfied with myself for all that I lack and for all the failures I've stuffed away under my bed. Nights toss and turn with vivid dreams that attest to this torment. 31 and I still cannot find my damn classroom or my homework or my purpose. It's much too familiar. On those days when it's difficult to find an outlet, my hair grays by the ears, and all I can do to feel some semblance of peace is to pull out a pair of scissors and start cutting&pasting. Creating art soley for its own sake can feel so pointless, so lonely, but it sure beats the hell out of going to the mall or sitting through an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond.