I'm not half so angry as I was Friday morning. It's kind of melted away like heavy wax, and pooled at the bottom of my soul to make me feel sort of leaden.
I wanted to stay furious as I went into work. I'm still not sure what happened, by time kind of dulled me down in a special way and I got to thinking about . . . shitiness. And mermaids and scientists.
I watched former President Clinton talking to a classroom on C-Span after work. The most impressive thing he said was that Democrats and Republicans are generally more complicated than "Democrat" and "Republican" and that we'd be better off seeing them as complex individuals than as groups all sharing the same mindset. What a nice thought.
I got sad watching Clinton. He's still all charming and stuff. He had two terms as President, and really, he's gotten all he's ever could have wanted in his life, his life as an ambitious politician. What more could he want? And yet I wondered if he was really happy. Say what you want about him, but my theory is that he honestly cares about this country, whatever his faults. He claimed he did all he could do. But I think we can all agree that it wasn't enough. Some would say he did nothing. Others--rather few, though, even amongst his enemies--would say he's fucked things up. But he's now doomed to watch whatever shit hits the fan in the country and there's nothing he can do.
At work, I thought about my aunt who recently had her nose removed due to cancer. I thought about how, beyond the simple cosmetic issue, which is horrible enough, it probably makes one question one's mortality. Life was this, life was that, and now here I am without a nose. Is this the climax? Is this what we were leading up to? All that I hoped for, or that I hoped wouldn't happen, whatever desires . . . here reality is, and I'm literally falling apart. And it's hardly worth thinking about for most people.
She'd also lost her husband a few years ago. This newest development must seem like the latest chapter in a relentlessly morose book.
I can't think of anyone whose life would justify their death. Everyone I know needs to do more, needs to go further. That includes me.
I can't escape the feeling that there is never enough. Sometimes I think that death is a sign from the gods signifying that one has done enough, regardless of whether or not it seems that way. But what's the use of it if you don't feel it yourself? Perhaps life is principally about moulding one's own emotions and perceptions. You are fulfilled when you can make yourself believe you're fulfilled. Or go to a state where it doesn't matter to you what happens. Is there anything wrong with the life of a stone?
What is so wrong with nothing? Why do we all want something? Do we?
When I write I often taste something like a satisfaction with existence. When I write fiction (not this here. This is just moping), I feel something wonderful, and fuller than anything else I've ever experienced in my life.
So on the one hand I want to keep going after that, and one the other hand there's nothingness. It's only the thirst for the former that draws me away from the latter. And somewhere in between is the horrid realisation that I'll die without feeling like I've done enough.
I discovered a few hours ago that Trisa has written a very nice poem in her journal. I think it's a meant as a joyous rendering of spontaneous casual sex, but it really only made me feel kind of sad.
It also made me feel like I would like to do nothing but write and make art in all my freetime in the near future. I did a new page of Doll Merchant.
Currently listening to a piece from the Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon soundtrack and it feels good.