Verschränkung: Modern Romanticism

I’ve noticed that I write better when I don’t care. In fact, it seems caring has become a theme of sorts; or rather, the lack of caring. I’m better at sex, cooking, driving, dancing and talking when I care less. This is the oddest paradox to consider. And yet, emotionally I feel better and get better feedback when I don’t care because I’m unafraid to take risks. When I care, I suddenly become emotionally invested to the extreme. I become self-reflexive and self-referential. Suddenly, this caring spawns another problem: avoidance. I now care so much that I must avoid it because all of a sudden this object or subject I care about now causes me distress, and I need distance. Then, before I know it I’m in a sealed box with a broken flask of poison screaming ‘Verschränkung’ while watching my reflection between two mirrors.

I’ll present evidence on this: every paper I’ve written so far this semester for a certain class I previously trashed I’ve poured and contemplated over, reaching for deeper meaning within the text. And every paper ended up at least 3-4 pages, when the assignment only called for a page. Then, I turn in my paper last week (not the diatribe, but still something that pretty much said “Who gives a flying …” in 1.25 pages. Perhaps my teacher and TA were simply ecstatic I wasn’t forcing them to read extra. Perhaps my paper finally contained passion. I’m just not sure. And I don’t think I want to know, because I’ve suddenly found something that works for me: caring less (if we want to split hairs and argue over semantics, I guess we could say I’m taking it less seriously, but I’ve come to loathe semantic arguments. They’re circular and never end, and usually result in me throwing a glass of water in someone’s face).

One piece of advice I’ve heard over and over again, in writing that is, is never be afraid to kill your characters. I heard it in my creative writing class. I heard it in my dramatic writing class. And I’ve heard it again in my literature classes. They seem to be telling me not to take it too seriously. And why should I take it seriously? When the sun sets on our lives, none of us will make it out alive. That’s a given. That’s remained the only constant: we all die. Some may find that morbid, but I find that exhilarating and freeing. Sometimes I view this life as a burden and then sometimes I view it as the greatest thing since sliced bread or pasta or orgasmic-inducing triple chocolate coffee brownies (winter time is the best time to experience the exhilarations of chocolate. It’s as though the dark, gooey chocolate replaces the brightness of the sun, but I digress).

One of the problems with immortality is everything becomes the same (insert the song “It’s a Bore” from Gigi. And while Gigi invites the inevitable comparisons to My Fair Lady, there’s an irreverent humor lacking in My Fair Lady; or, it takes itself too seriously. With that said, I adore My Fair Lady, and have seen it more than ten times, but I clearly digress).  Life’s probably somewhere in between the two, given that the universe seems to prefer balance. I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. I’ll find out on the other side.

Why should I worry? Why should I care? You can finish the song, but caring leads to inhibition and censorship.

I’ve suddenly found new respect for the phrase “who cares,” sometimes fashioned as “who gives a flying …” From this day forward I’d like to make a vow to care less, but knowing myself I’ll procrastinate or care too much about not caring and then wind up avoiding the whole issue until I reach another psychological crisis point. With all that said, about writing teachers teaching to care less about characters and the arts telling us to care less, perhaps what they’re really saying is ‘Don’t be afraid to take risks.’ It’s as though they’re giving me permission to strap on those imaginary Christian Louboutin heels, press the gas as hard as I can and find out what happens, find the limits of my own personal human existence. Probably not.

But I do think they’re suggesting don’t be afraid to experience the full rainbow of color life has to offer instead of the black-and-white/this-or-that dichotomous view of the world. Or, to quote the Bard, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” There’s irony for you; using the flip-flopping indecisive Hamlet to prove a point about taking risks.

When I dropped out of school took a sabbatical from academic learning in 2007, my maxim became ‘Take Chances, Get Messy, and Make Mistakes.’ That’s right, I went back to my childhood and my favorite show. I thought, “What would Ms. Frizzle tell me to do in this situation?” Actually, I didn’t think so much as I did. And that’s what was exhilariting. This time around, I’m running into the same roadblocks as before; my caring leads to self-censorship, which leads to less risk-taking and has left me feeling rather bland. Not to mention my general anxiety’s been acting up in the form of sleepless nights and haunting dreams. To some (I’m pointing at my former psychiatrist and psychologist), this may come off as bipolar. Hell, I just may be mad. I’m willing to admit that. I’ll concede on that point. But I’d rather be creatively mad than artistically bland. And I’d rather hang around the slightly mad and insane, those touched by fire, who keep you mentally on your feet and physically out the door. They inspire and require action, instead of planning and contemplating. Who is that who said “God laughs at men who makes plans?” By Jove, those Jews just may be onto something. Not that plans don’t have their place. But one could spend an eternity planning and daring to eat a peach while the moment passes by

Oh fuck, I just realized perhaps that’s the meaning behind Pound’s “Make it new.” To think, he and that silly maxim used to be my nemesis. I blame this entirely on my Modernism and Postmodernism class.

With all that said, in a curiously diatribing way: Bus, do your stuff. Never is not an option. Now let’s go play in traffic and see what happens (I’m kidding).