For all the positivity and seeming boundless energy in my last post, it is of course natural that my lazy has not accomplished near to what I wanted in the two weeks since writing and posting.
I always forget the incredible weight and challenge of inertia. Last year, when living in Korea, I decided that I was going to start studying the Korean language in a very real way- study a minimum number of hours each week, with a goal and a test to wrap all things up. However, being out of school for years at that point made the transition surprisingly difficult- I wasn't used to studying, nor was I accustomed to having to subject myself to any sort of personal discipline whatsoever.
It took months- two or three entire months- to rev my engines up to the point that I could actually treat studying like it was a daily, expected activity. Plugging it into my routine was incredibly difficult and a challenge that I constantly failed. I don't understand what it is about my lazy-ass personality, but I just don't like doing things, apparently. I loved how busy I used to be in school and how challenging it was to balance a schedule of work, school, work again, volunteering, an active social life, and even- god forbid- exercise and healthy living.
But now, years out from that, I can only look back at that time with the longing of a washed-up has-been. At twenty-six, I know that I'm way too young to look back at those 'glory days', but that's really what has been happening. It's embarassing and I don't understand why even getting myself to study a few hours every week is such a challenge... let alone eating healthy, or exercising regularly.
After that initial challenge period, I moved into a nice groove of studying about twenty hours a week. That was a bit excessive, but I had the free time back then so it was not only a nice way to fill my time, but I also benefitted a great deal from the increased focus on my brain and active intellectual pursuit. It worked wonders for my confidence and I even began to work out somewhat occasionally, and moved towards a healthy, regular sleep cycle.
There are days lately where I come home from work, getting in around 1 am or so, and I just sit in front of my computer and do nothing. I surf the web for hours, maybe chatting lightly with a friend, and I think about all the things that I'd rather be doing or that I would be better off for doing. Sometimes I have to mentally fight with myself to even push myself to play a video game or watch a movie- because even THOSE things would be more productive than the shitload of nothing that I am doing at the time.
I'm still not sure how to overcome this, but I'm getting back into the swing of studying. 10 hours a week minimum, 15 hours a week as my goal. I'm studying computer/nerd stuff, trying my best to learn and hopefully to prepare for taking some classes at a community college next year (if I can swing it financially). I love studying and I love learning, so I'm not even sure what the difficulty is.
Is inertia really such a challenge? I've been moving at a glacial pace for a long time, and I want to be flying again. I know I'm headed in the right direction these days, and I'm even finding some satisfaction in my work- which is new for me- but I'm moving too slow. I need the thrill of challenge again outside of the office, and I need to know what it means to be legitimately busy again.
So how do I do that? How do I speed up from crawling to flying again?
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Missing Me
A few years ago, I decided that I wanted to be a diplomat.
I guess it's been almost more than a few years; it was back in 2006. But now at twenty-six years of age, perhaps seven years past really is just 'a few years'. My oldest brother turned thirty a few weeks ago, and my younger brother is twenty-four soon. Is it strange that watching their ages go up makes me feel older than watching my own?
So I decided that I wanted to be a diplomat, and of all places, I wanted to be a diplomat in Asia- South Korea specifically. So I studied Korean in school, got a degree in linguistics, and did all sorts of other stuff to prepare me for this amazing career that I was without a doubt romanticizing into oblivion. I wanted to change the world; I wanted my actions to positively impact everyone around me.
When I finally got there, it wasn't what I expected- 'it' being both South Korea and the world as a whole. I met some amazing people, and also some very bad people. I was lied to and taken advantage of, and I didn't really understand half of what was happening to me. So like my typical, stubborn old self, I put my head down and tried to power through. I needed to succeed, on my terms, and in my own way- through grit and perseverance, just like all my childhood stories always told me.
Well, naturally, that didn't work. I wanted to believe for so long that simply working hard and staying positive would be enough to bring me the sort of grand success that I had always dreamed of. When I discovered that that's really just not how the world operates, I spiraled into a long, drawn-out emotional flinch that last almost a year while I 'recovered' by living at home and working as a barista at a local starbucks. I met some great people there, too, and will always look back at that time with fondness.
I went back to Asia, energized and ready to succeed in a whole different way. Gone again for another year, I found the sort of adventures that I remembered from my last trip and a new sort of sadness. Again, my time there blew up in my face because of some awful people making some really awful decisions, and I left bitter, angry, and broke.
Now, more than six months returned to America and settling into a comfortable and productive place, I look back at the things that are gone, the things I missed while I was 'gone'. Even when I was back in America living at home, it was such a challenging place that I never felt like myself- I never felt content or satisfied, only wanting more and never really reaching out to people like I used to.
I've had these moods before, and now I'm finally beginning to realize the cost of missing myself. I missed my father's wedding to my wonderful stepmother, and I missed my brother's wedding to my new sister-in-law. I missed the pregnancy and new motherhood of a very close friend, and the blossoming of so many people's romantic and professional lives. My family grows larger, and I still feel so separated by my own choices.
I'm growing tired of missing things, of missing me. My grandmother sent me a birthday card recently that reminds me of how excited and happy I was as a kid. Reading it stopped me for a moment because there is not part of growing up that necessitates bitterness and cynicism.
Maturity isn't born from misery, and success doesn't come from asperity. I've always compensated for my lack of discipline with harshness towards both myself and the people around me, but that's never been a good solution.
So let's trade asperity for temperance, and grimness for fortitude, and see if this next leg of the adventure doesn't come with a bit more success than the last.
I guess it's been almost more than a few years; it was back in 2006. But now at twenty-six years of age, perhaps seven years past really is just 'a few years'. My oldest brother turned thirty a few weeks ago, and my younger brother is twenty-four soon. Is it strange that watching their ages go up makes me feel older than watching my own?
So I decided that I wanted to be a diplomat, and of all places, I wanted to be a diplomat in Asia- South Korea specifically. So I studied Korean in school, got a degree in linguistics, and did all sorts of other stuff to prepare me for this amazing career that I was without a doubt romanticizing into oblivion. I wanted to change the world; I wanted my actions to positively impact everyone around me.
When I finally got there, it wasn't what I expected- 'it' being both South Korea and the world as a whole. I met some amazing people, and also some very bad people. I was lied to and taken advantage of, and I didn't really understand half of what was happening to me. So like my typical, stubborn old self, I put my head down and tried to power through. I needed to succeed, on my terms, and in my own way- through grit and perseverance, just like all my childhood stories always told me.
Well, naturally, that didn't work. I wanted to believe for so long that simply working hard and staying positive would be enough to bring me the sort of grand success that I had always dreamed of. When I discovered that that's really just not how the world operates, I spiraled into a long, drawn-out emotional flinch that last almost a year while I 'recovered' by living at home and working as a barista at a local starbucks. I met some great people there, too, and will always look back at that time with fondness.
I went back to Asia, energized and ready to succeed in a whole different way. Gone again for another year, I found the sort of adventures that I remembered from my last trip and a new sort of sadness. Again, my time there blew up in my face because of some awful people making some really awful decisions, and I left bitter, angry, and broke.
Now, more than six months returned to America and settling into a comfortable and productive place, I look back at the things that are gone, the things I missed while I was 'gone'. Even when I was back in America living at home, it was such a challenging place that I never felt like myself- I never felt content or satisfied, only wanting more and never really reaching out to people like I used to.
I've had these moods before, and now I'm finally beginning to realize the cost of missing myself. I missed my father's wedding to my wonderful stepmother, and I missed my brother's wedding to my new sister-in-law. I missed the pregnancy and new motherhood of a very close friend, and the blossoming of so many people's romantic and professional lives. My family grows larger, and I still feel so separated by my own choices.
I'm growing tired of missing things, of missing me. My grandmother sent me a birthday card recently that reminds me of how excited and happy I was as a kid. Reading it stopped me for a moment because there is not part of growing up that necessitates bitterness and cynicism.
Maturity isn't born from misery, and success doesn't come from asperity. I've always compensated for my lack of discipline with harshness towards both myself and the people around me, but that's never been a good solution.
So let's trade asperity for temperance, and grimness for fortitude, and see if this next leg of the adventure doesn't come with a bit more success than the last.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
November
Has it already been a month since I last posted here? Good lord.
I guess it's kinda hard to want to update since I a) feel like I have so very little to report most of the time and b), I don't think that anyone really reads this here. I suppose it's hard to build any sort of readership when I don't post, or at least don't post anything insightful or interesting, eh?
November has for, several years now, been a pretty significant month for me. In 2009, I took the month to participate in the National Novel Writing Month's competition to write a (relatively) short novel in the short 30 days of November. It was a big stress to me at the time and I fretted the entire time over the purpose of it, wondering what could possibly be the benefit of doing such a silly thing. After all, who could really develop anything useful or interesting or well-thought out or well-constructed in just 30 days?
It turns out that I was both right and wrong. Although I participated (jumping in 5 days late, sigh), and I won by exceeding the 50,000 word minimum given in the pseudo-competition (50,294), the story was not of the greatest quality. In fact, it was far from my best writing or my highest capabilities. Although it was really only 4 years ago, reading back through some of the novel that I wrote is nearly painful for me.
Yet, I have a novel to go back and read. In fact, I devoted an entire month to writing. I thought daily about my characters and built an entire world up out of nothing. I got to know the imaginary people and began to see how they would fit in with my real life. I wanted to know them better; I wanted them to be real. Even though they were just figments of my imagination, I started to imbue parts of me into their little fiction-encased bodies.
And it sparked nearly two years of intense creativity that I haven't seen the likes of since. Part of me looks back at that time and remarks: "Oh, to be 22 again and not have had to pay any school loans back", or "Jeeze, I miss having all that free time and no car to do anything." I think realistically, a big part of that year of intense 'creation' was sparked off by the success I experienced in NaNoWriMo and the after effects of having my head constantly up in the clouds.
I miss that- that feeling. That knowledge that I was something more than myself, that I was building and creating, that confidence that I even could create. A few years of some difficult work and some very unfortunate life experiences sometimes makes me feel like all of that positivity and creativity was just stomped out of me.
But it hasn't been, and it never will be. Like blood, I have what I need to generate more of those positivity components. I never lost my 'creative marrow', I just forget that it was there. Maybe this November is a good time to search for those essentials again.
I guess it's kinda hard to want to update since I a) feel like I have so very little to report most of the time and b), I don't think that anyone really reads this here. I suppose it's hard to build any sort of readership when I don't post, or at least don't post anything insightful or interesting, eh?
November has for, several years now, been a pretty significant month for me. In 2009, I took the month to participate in the National Novel Writing Month's competition to write a (relatively) short novel in the short 30 days of November. It was a big stress to me at the time and I fretted the entire time over the purpose of it, wondering what could possibly be the benefit of doing such a silly thing. After all, who could really develop anything useful or interesting or well-thought out or well-constructed in just 30 days?
It turns out that I was both right and wrong. Although I participated (jumping in 5 days late, sigh), and I won by exceeding the 50,000 word minimum given in the pseudo-competition (50,294), the story was not of the greatest quality. In fact, it was far from my best writing or my highest capabilities. Although it was really only 4 years ago, reading back through some of the novel that I wrote is nearly painful for me.
Yet, I have a novel to go back and read. In fact, I devoted an entire month to writing. I thought daily about my characters and built an entire world up out of nothing. I got to know the imaginary people and began to see how they would fit in with my real life. I wanted to know them better; I wanted them to be real. Even though they were just figments of my imagination, I started to imbue parts of me into their little fiction-encased bodies.
And it sparked nearly two years of intense creativity that I haven't seen the likes of since. Part of me looks back at that time and remarks: "Oh, to be 22 again and not have had to pay any school loans back", or "Jeeze, I miss having all that free time and no car to do anything." I think realistically, a big part of that year of intense 'creation' was sparked off by the success I experienced in NaNoWriMo and the after effects of having my head constantly up in the clouds.
I miss that- that feeling. That knowledge that I was something more than myself, that I was building and creating, that confidence that I even could create. A few years of some difficult work and some very unfortunate life experiences sometimes makes me feel like all of that positivity and creativity was just stomped out of me.
But it hasn't been, and it never will be. Like blood, I have what I need to generate more of those positivity components. I never lost my 'creative marrow', I just forget that it was there. Maybe this November is a good time to search for those essentials again.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Nightsweets
In response to a recent trouble Ive had with thinking about work too much at home, I've started listening to music before sleep again.
I did this a lot in Korea, when insomnia would hit me real bad. Turn off all the lights, turn on a fan and lay down with soft and light music flowing lightly through my big headphones. It became a routine, a comfort. I've never been one for counting sheep; my brain doesn't do very well on something so cottony.
Insomnia or not, I feel change coming this fall. I am slowly moving my work schedule to first shift, though it's probably months away from happening fully. Yet now having regained two evenings during the week, I find myself at a loss. Leaving work before 10pm is foreign and it's hard to not worry that I'm doing something incorrectly. I come home and just lay around, accomplishing little and worrying about the lack of productivity.
But work and effort aren't productive if they serve no purpose, if I gain nothing from them. I can busy myself to death, but even I can't trick myself into believing that something useless I do is beautiful or purposed unless it intrinsically carries those properties with them.
If Object A <> quality X, even projecting the imagine of X upon A will all my might is only a further lesson in tilting at windmills.
So this fall, ostensibly a few weeks in already, is less a search for stability and instead should be redirected at at a grand journey to find purpose. Motivation. Reason.
And I lie in bed, eyes closed and body still, soaring through the clouds over sonic waves of anamnesis. Incorporeal and unshackled, ethereal as a sea of breath, I fly like a falling star in reverse, and somehow make my way off to sleep.
I did this a lot in Korea, when insomnia would hit me real bad. Turn off all the lights, turn on a fan and lay down with soft and light music flowing lightly through my big headphones. It became a routine, a comfort. I've never been one for counting sheep; my brain doesn't do very well on something so cottony.
Insomnia or not, I feel change coming this fall. I am slowly moving my work schedule to first shift, though it's probably months away from happening fully. Yet now having regained two evenings during the week, I find myself at a loss. Leaving work before 10pm is foreign and it's hard to not worry that I'm doing something incorrectly. I come home and just lay around, accomplishing little and worrying about the lack of productivity.
But work and effort aren't productive if they serve no purpose, if I gain nothing from them. I can busy myself to death, but even I can't trick myself into believing that something useless I do is beautiful or purposed unless it intrinsically carries those properties with them.
If Object A <> quality X, even projecting the imagine of X upon A will all my might is only a further lesson in tilting at windmills.
So this fall, ostensibly a few weeks in already, is less a search for stability and instead should be redirected at at a grand journey to find purpose. Motivation. Reason.
And I lie in bed, eyes closed and body still, soaring through the clouds over sonic waves of anamnesis. Incorporeal and unshackled, ethereal as a sea of breath, I fly like a falling star in reverse, and somehow make my way off to sleep.
- Deus dormit [the god sleeps]
- Et liberi ignem faciunt [and the children light a flame]
- Numquam extinguet [he never dies,]
- Ne expergisci possit. [he can never awake.]
- Omnia dividit [the dear and]
- Tragoedia cara [lovable tragedy]
- Amandamque [divides everything.]
- Et nocte perpetua [In the endless night,]
- In desperatione [in desperation]
- Auroram videre potest [you may see the aurora]
- Manet tempus expergiscendi. [it's just the time to revive.]
Monday, September 23, 2013
Nostalgic Insenstience
Music has always been something of an intense experience for me. Putting on a pair of headphones and turning on nearly any song can instantly summon forth a sometimes overpowering set of emotions that seems to take total control of my 'mood'. I instantly remember all these details about the song- when did it first find it, and why it is significant for me. What did this song mean to me, and why?
I can never seem to forget it. I remember the first time I heard most songs in my library, and exactly how it made me feel. Turning on songs from high school or early years of college is like downloading an entire set of emotions and memories from another time- like restoring a backup into my memory. It's overwhelming, and even today I found myself nearly out of breath when taken off-guard by a particularly poignant song.
Be it a loud dance-oriented beat or something quiet and calm, any sort of song can take its place in my catalog. It's amazing how easy I can sometimes manipulate my emotions and mood into feeling pumped up or sad, just by turning on a particular set of songs. I remember these things so specifically that like ghosts of the past, I can summon them all back without much difficulty.
It feels stupid, and I'm sure I'm not alone in this. It's just something that hits me very hard from time to time- be it a song from the radio when I was little, or a particularly reminiscent from a significant scene in a favorite video game, there are just a lot of songs that bury themselves so deeply beneath my skin that I could never itch nor shake them loose.
Lately, to combat the heavy and unending thoughts of work, I lie down and listen to old music, letting the memories roll over me and carry me like soft tidal waves into slumber. Nostalgia my captain and memory my ship, I sail gently to tomorrow on the current of all my lives wrapped into a single, blue ocean that stretches in all directions.
It may be cheesy and it may be trite, but it's hard to sleep without the song lately.
I can never seem to forget it. I remember the first time I heard most songs in my library, and exactly how it made me feel. Turning on songs from high school or early years of college is like downloading an entire set of emotions and memories from another time- like restoring a backup into my memory. It's overwhelming, and even today I found myself nearly out of breath when taken off-guard by a particularly poignant song.
Be it a loud dance-oriented beat or something quiet and calm, any sort of song can take its place in my catalog. It's amazing how easy I can sometimes manipulate my emotions and mood into feeling pumped up or sad, just by turning on a particular set of songs. I remember these things so specifically that like ghosts of the past, I can summon them all back without much difficulty.
It feels stupid, and I'm sure I'm not alone in this. It's just something that hits me very hard from time to time- be it a song from the radio when I was little, or a particularly reminiscent from a significant scene in a favorite video game, there are just a lot of songs that bury themselves so deeply beneath my skin that I could never itch nor shake them loose.
Lately, to combat the heavy and unending thoughts of work, I lie down and listen to old music, letting the memories roll over me and carry me like soft tidal waves into slumber. Nostalgia my captain and memory my ship, I sail gently to tomorrow on the current of all my lives wrapped into a single, blue ocean that stretches in all directions.
It may be cheesy and it may be trite, but it's hard to sleep without the song lately.
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Separation Anxiety
I've always prided myself on being a hard worker and being very thorough with any sort of project I'm working on. I believe that I commit well to my tasks at hand and have a very strong organizational intelligence that allows me to balance a wide variety of projects/tasks at a time, properly triaging the most urgent and handling everything in a time-sensitive manner.
I'm typically able to accomplish this be expending an enormous amount of psychic energy, completely devoting myself to the task list. It's a great if tiring practice at work where all of the mentioned skills, and more, are required to do my job well. Today, I walked into work and was bombarded by one thing after another that all required my immediate attention, needed to be finished ASAP, and no one else could address it.
I got through the day successfully, meeting my goals and (ideally) pleasing both clients and company. I've reached a point where many of my coworkers have grown comfortable trusting and depending on me to do a very high-quality work, and that makes me extraordinarily proud.
But lying down in bed at 3:30 am, I discover the cost of committing so strongly to my job: I can't leave it behind.
This is an issue that has slowly been creeping up on me lately and I keep brushing it under the rug, but as I laid in bed and listened to some old music from years and years ago, I found my nostalgia interrupted time and time again with visions of work. Last night, I fell asleep on the couch after a long shift and dreamt I was right back at work, back in the trenches, never having left.
It's driving me crazy. I can't seem to leave it behind me. I've memorized account numbers and names of all sorts of people; I could probably do half of my work blind-folded since I seem to have memorized it all so thoroughly. I just want to separate from it, but I can't.
When I was younger and I'd obsess over video games, I'd memorize all sorts of little things from them, to the point that I can comfortably play through same entire games in my head (I've done it, too, on long flights or something). Now that same freaky-weird memory is biting me in the ass because I can't seem to shut down the part of my brain that is 'work'.
How do you do that? How can I 'just say no' to thinking about work when I leave? All I want to do is sleep without worrying and worrying and worrying... I don't even work tomorrow.
How can I cure myself of this daily dose of separation anxiety?
I'm typically able to accomplish this be expending an enormous amount of psychic energy, completely devoting myself to the task list. It's a great if tiring practice at work where all of the mentioned skills, and more, are required to do my job well. Today, I walked into work and was bombarded by one thing after another that all required my immediate attention, needed to be finished ASAP, and no one else could address it.
I got through the day successfully, meeting my goals and (ideally) pleasing both clients and company. I've reached a point where many of my coworkers have grown comfortable trusting and depending on me to do a very high-quality work, and that makes me extraordinarily proud.
But lying down in bed at 3:30 am, I discover the cost of committing so strongly to my job: I can't leave it behind.
This is an issue that has slowly been creeping up on me lately and I keep brushing it under the rug, but as I laid in bed and listened to some old music from years and years ago, I found my nostalgia interrupted time and time again with visions of work. Last night, I fell asleep on the couch after a long shift and dreamt I was right back at work, back in the trenches, never having left.
It's driving me crazy. I can't seem to leave it behind me. I've memorized account numbers and names of all sorts of people; I could probably do half of my work blind-folded since I seem to have memorized it all so thoroughly. I just want to separate from it, but I can't.
When I was younger and I'd obsess over video games, I'd memorize all sorts of little things from them, to the point that I can comfortably play through same entire games in my head (I've done it, too, on long flights or something). Now that same freaky-weird memory is biting me in the ass because I can't seem to shut down the part of my brain that is 'work'.
How do you do that? How can I 'just say no' to thinking about work when I leave? All I want to do is sleep without worrying and worrying and worrying... I don't even work tomorrow.
How can I cure myself of this daily dose of separation anxiety?
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Sharing isn't always Caring
In 2009, I traveled to South Korea for the first time as a part of a really cool trip run by an NGO in DC. I spent a month traveling through the country and meeting some really amazing people, including ambassadors and generals- big, decision-making sorts of people. I made friends who were radically different from me and learned about the world as well as myself; it was a wonderful trip.
Naturally, pictures were an important part of the experience. We all took hundreds and hundreds of pictures, the course of the month filling up harddrives with thousands of photos from our group of just-under-fifty people. Responsible for organizing a publication to memorialize the month, I got to sort through quite a few of those photos, reliving nearly every place we went and every thing we did. It was that beautiful, bittersweet nostalgia that we always so cautiously crave.
There was something that bothered me about it all, though. We spent time at ancient palaces, remnants of cultures and kingdoms that no longer existed, and from a similar period, we traveled to several old and beautiful Buddhist temples. But whereas the palaces were political and tourist traps, the temples remained alive and breathing, and we had the pleasure of witnessing live Buddhist ceremonies. Out of respect, I chose not to take pictures of any part of the temples, but I was alone in the sentiment and even mocked for such silliness. Why not take pictures? Why not use flash?
Now, in 2013, with smart phones everywhere and instagram/twitter/tumblr/facebook/etcetcetc being used by everyone and their mom, the idea of intentionally not taking pictures while doing something interesting or seeing something beautiful seems almost foreign. We all continue moving towards creating a live, never-ending personal news feed and technology does nothing but enable my generation's desire for every person to star in their own personal movie.
Don't get me wrong- I love what technology has to offer. I love that I can take a picture of something silly and send it to a friend that I share an inside joke with, or that I can communicate in real-time with my old pals who live across the world. That's amazing and we should all take advantage of what our technology has to offer.
But sometimes I don't want to share. I don't want every moment of my life to be plastered on the internet.
I remember my time at the temples fondly, and the quiet peace of a ceremony that I know nothing about. I don't regret not taking pictures; I don't feel shorthanded at all. I'm happy that I have that memory to myself, that the images and the smells and the sounds are mine and mine alone, stored away somewhere in the archives of my mind to be taken out and enjoyed when I want it.
Over the past few years, I've grown more and more desirous of these 'selfish' memories. While so many people around move closer to sharing every waking thought and every meal and every sunrise, I find my own memory becoming more and more precious. While I'm amenable to taking pictures for some moments, more often than not, I seem to think "I just want this one for me", and I leave my nice, 8 megapixel cell in my pocket.
And the memories I'm holding in my heart seem sharper than ever. I still take the occasional photos for my records, or for shits and giggles, or to share something particularly poignant, but I like that everyone on my facebook feed doesn't always know what I'm doing or have done. I don't need them to know; I don't want them to know. I know, and I can tell them later, if I want.
Maybe it's just the story-teller nature of my personality, but there's something just aggravating about trying to share an experience with someone and hearing them say "oh yeah, I saw that on your wall" or "I know, I follow you on Twitter." I love the satisfaction of sharing my life with someone directly, of feeling them react and knowing that they know because I like them enough to share my stories with them. It's warm and it's personal, and maybe it's a bit outdated to some people, that's what I like and that's what I choose.
It might be silly; maybe it's even selfish. It's hard for me to say exactly, but there's something very sweet and comforting knowing that my memories can remain precious and rare. I may live my life as if I'm staring in my own personal movie, but I don't really feel the need to share the script with everyone- only the people that matter most.
Naturally, pictures were an important part of the experience. We all took hundreds and hundreds of pictures, the course of the month filling up harddrives with thousands of photos from our group of just-under-fifty people. Responsible for organizing a publication to memorialize the month, I got to sort through quite a few of those photos, reliving nearly every place we went and every thing we did. It was that beautiful, bittersweet nostalgia that we always so cautiously crave.
There was something that bothered me about it all, though. We spent time at ancient palaces, remnants of cultures and kingdoms that no longer existed, and from a similar period, we traveled to several old and beautiful Buddhist temples. But whereas the palaces were political and tourist traps, the temples remained alive and breathing, and we had the pleasure of witnessing live Buddhist ceremonies. Out of respect, I chose not to take pictures of any part of the temples, but I was alone in the sentiment and even mocked for such silliness. Why not take pictures? Why not use flash?
Now, in 2013, with smart phones everywhere and instagram/twitter/tumblr/facebook/etcetcetc being used by everyone and their mom, the idea of intentionally not taking pictures while doing something interesting or seeing something beautiful seems almost foreign. We all continue moving towards creating a live, never-ending personal news feed and technology does nothing but enable my generation's desire for every person to star in their own personal movie.
Don't get me wrong- I love what technology has to offer. I love that I can take a picture of something silly and send it to a friend that I share an inside joke with, or that I can communicate in real-time with my old pals who live across the world. That's amazing and we should all take advantage of what our technology has to offer.
But sometimes I don't want to share. I don't want every moment of my life to be plastered on the internet.
I remember my time at the temples fondly, and the quiet peace of a ceremony that I know nothing about. I don't regret not taking pictures; I don't feel shorthanded at all. I'm happy that I have that memory to myself, that the images and the smells and the sounds are mine and mine alone, stored away somewhere in the archives of my mind to be taken out and enjoyed when I want it.
Over the past few years, I've grown more and more desirous of these 'selfish' memories. While so many people around move closer to sharing every waking thought and every meal and every sunrise, I find my own memory becoming more and more precious. While I'm amenable to taking pictures for some moments, more often than not, I seem to think "I just want this one for me", and I leave my nice, 8 megapixel cell in my pocket.
And the memories I'm holding in my heart seem sharper than ever. I still take the occasional photos for my records, or for shits and giggles, or to share something particularly poignant, but I like that everyone on my facebook feed doesn't always know what I'm doing or have done. I don't need them to know; I don't want them to know. I know, and I can tell them later, if I want.
Maybe it's just the story-teller nature of my personality, but there's something just aggravating about trying to share an experience with someone and hearing them say "oh yeah, I saw that on your wall" or "I know, I follow you on Twitter." I love the satisfaction of sharing my life with someone directly, of feeling them react and knowing that they know because I like them enough to share my stories with them. It's warm and it's personal, and maybe it's a bit outdated to some people, that's what I like and that's what I choose.
It might be silly; maybe it's even selfish. It's hard for me to say exactly, but there's something very sweet and comforting knowing that my memories can remain precious and rare. I may live my life as if I'm staring in my own personal movie, but I don't really feel the need to share the script with everyone- only the people that matter most.
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