An update of sorts

There's this weird cut in our lives where we went from senseless panicking over the Big Everything, to simply withdrawing from Everything entirely. From chaos to nothingness. From cancelled trips to closed schools to social distancing to lockdowns. From regular supermarket trips to an apocalyptic hell of what once was the toilet paper aisle. Things are weird, and the mundane feels fundamentally different.

As we anxiously wait for what's next, being confronted with illness and worrisome news through neverending messages, Instagram stories and Twitter updates, the only thing left to do is to find a space within the chaos. I believe a space within the chaos is where books, films, conversations, text messages, notes, songs and thoughts come together. This blogpost is an example of the latter.  And since I am unable to connect with you physically, the virtual universe will have to suffice. Here's a crappy compilation of thoughts/trinkets/writings/memories/connotations/online toenail clippings. Enjoy!

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I've been writing almost every day. Most days, it feels like I'm talking complete bullshit, slipping into the clichés of adolescence more and more. Every teenager has compared love to lightning and excitement to night skies. In that sense, love and loneliness have fallen victim to their own pervasiveness. We feel differently yet can't help but speak alike. Originality in writing seems not only unachievable, but a myth on its own. 

How do I write without sounding pretentious? Who do I write about? More importantly: what do I write about? Panic, strangers, love? What is worth observing? What isn't? 

I'm scared of observing only the obvious, the visible. I'm scared of thinking only in memories, realities and moments where great minds seem to grasp the bigger picture: to think in stories, scenes, ideas. But maybe the distinction between the two - between a lifetime and a story -  is less drastic. I spent the past two weeks watching Twin Peaks for the very first time, and if there's anything David Lynch taught me, it's that reality and dreams are not so different after all, not unlike art and documentation. Special Agent Dale Cooper carries a recorder wherever he goes, documenting what he sees and hears in his search for the truth behind Laura Palmer's death. In that sense, the tape recorder is Cooper's very own secret diary (though Cooper seems to prefer 'Diane' over 'Dear Diary'), so full of doubts and self-reflection, dreams and realities. However, these attempts of preserving the present are more than a form of bland documentation, as Cooper expresses himself as eloquently as a poet would. Twin Peaks is where dreams turn into realities, documents into art. My idols seem to turn documentation into art with such ease, and I'm envious of them. All I want is to belong to this neverending string of artists, who feel so deeply and profoundly they can't help but speak in stories.

I am yet to write great stories. Perhaps I never will.

What makes a great story? How is a story different from an experience, a person, a lifetime? Is writing about my own life valid in any way? And if I wrote fiction instead, wouldn't the story be infused with my own experiences? How does one write a compelling story?

Given the extra free time on my hands, I've taken up the challenge of writing fiction. While digging through piles of memories for drops of inspiration I could use for stories, I have come to the realization that I am constantly taking up a narrative position in my own life. It's like observing the present with retrospect glasses on. These glasses distort my eyesight like a kaleidoscope. Memories with an air of loveliness that discolors over time, leaving only the glittering hue of golden years. Incidentally, one of my favourite ever Bowie line in 'Oh! You Pretty Things' is a humorous "see their faces in golden rays". Such a coincidence! This is where the universe and I perfectly align.

(This melodic slice of wisdom, which is my new favourite synonym for 'song lyric', is followed by Bowie singing "the earth is a bitch, we've finished our news". This is a more accurate reflection of my teenage angst and cynism, but that's beside the point.)

I see my friends' faces in golden rays long after being in their company. My memories of them already fading into sun-spilled nostalgia as I ride my bike home. I tend to forget how magical it feels to live in the moment because I'm already thinking in the past tense. It's a universal feeling: the melancholy of wishing this moment, this dance, this night would last forever. And by being painfully aware of every ending, we are left with experiences that are perenially nostalgic.

Tavi Gevinson talks about this in her Inifinity Diaries:

"It’s not just in memory that we change who people are or see only what we wish. If you’re that used to doing it in writing, you’ll start to gain a reflex for commodifying in real-time interactions. This talent doesn’t start with malice; just imagination. It’s honed through years of living among fiction."

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In conclusion: I am having a very hard time writing fiction. Meanwhile, I am left with an abundance of real-life experiences I don't know what to do with. I take note of every detail worth observing and fill diary after diary. This is where I get stuck. It's too personal to share, but telling people "I love to write" without actually ever showing any of my writing feels stupid. Ever heard of imposter syndrome? Yeah, same, #mood. I've tried making it less personal, removing myself from the story and taking on an indifferent perspective, but that's just genuinely boring to read. 

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Apart from writing, I've been failing miserably at not falling into a deep pit of existentialism (for proof: read the above). Perhaps it's my sun in Pisces or the lack of opportunities for self-expression aka social settings where I can unapologetically word-vomit these ideas and feel connected to the world, but it's been hard. I believe at least 75% of my semi-interesting thoughts stem from conversations with friends. Because of this, I can't even think properly anymore. Has anyone else been feeling stuck in their own heads? Thinking in backward circles of worn-out brain farts? I watched this House M.D. episode once where House said that nothing you think of yourself is inherently new, as it's already present in your subconscious. This is a possible explanation for my mental sluggishness. These feelings of inactivity can be brought back to writing as well since sluggishness equals low energy levels which equals writing barely one sentence a day! IT'S ALL ABOUT WRITING BABY! Everywhere I look I see letters and sentences and I can't make anything out of this chaos. 

That's usually where my blog comes in to make writing less daunting. On the other hand, I've grown out of blogging (yes I know I say this every time, give me a break). Even now, this space feels more like a record of my childlike obsessions and not at all like an accurate representation of me and my writing (NARCISSTIC BRAT ALERT: I only write about myself on here because writing about everyone else is even harder and more personal, and I could never do the people I love justice through a fucking blogpost. Also, writing about others makes me miss going to school and being around people in general. Just a quick disclaimer! I promise I'm not as self-conceited as I sound in this blogpost). Maybe this is where I end my blog? I don't know? 

Anyway, this is what's been on my mind these past few weeks. But before I go back to bingewatching Twin Peaks, infinite snacks, taking naps, daily walks around the neighbourhood and texting my friends I miss them 2348392 times a day, I wanted to say thank you! For reading this virtual junk drawer aka blog, but mostly for being generally awesome.

Yours truly,

Cato