Rambling Post That Doesn't Necessarily Make Sense

Games that require clapping and saying something about oneself in front of strangers is my least favorite thing in the world. For those that might know me, this is rarefied company. I don't handle forced socialization very well. There is something about it that I loathe. Somewhere amongst the fake smiles and the feigned interest there is something ___. For as long as I can recall it has been this way for me. I hated camp as a child and dreaded the required functions parents press upon their offspring. By the time I finished high school I naively felt that I finally escaped the onus of forced socialization.

This naivety was shattered by Camp Longhorn. I was gently forced by my mother into attending this camp just before beginning my freshman year of college. Though orientation with its required meetings and info sessions wasn't entirely bad, I despised the camp. It was everything I hated about camp as a child, even the clapping games, but transplanted onto incoming freshman.

Now that I've entered adulthood, this social dread that has survived my childhood and my adolescence continues to exist. The only change has been my own outlook. It seems I have finally realized that forced socialization is one of the inevitabilities of life. It's not exactly death and taxes but it's damn close. This weekend was proof.

My presence was required this past weekend at a lodge atop a beautiful mountain for my step brother's wedding. To say that I was less than excited about this is perhaps an understatement (my attendance this weekend came at the cost of seeing MMJ in Dallas). As gauche and egocentric as it might be to admit this, it's the truth. Of course my problem isn't with weddings themselves but with these sort of pseudo family wedding where you know virtually no one—immediate family excluded—and are expected to carry on with fellow attendees as if you do know them.

Perhaps I am just a true contrarian, always in rebellion with what is expected. From petulant refusals to go to Sixth Street in college to my own youthful adoration of teams I wasn't supposed to like, a line of contrary behavior can be found in my life. This streak seems to have taken on a life of its own at times—a preternatural instinct almost. What other explanation can be reached for my fits of temper, silence, despair or my unfair humor even in the face of people for whom I deeply care? Or is it just the easy one?

Lions in the Bush

For those who may not know it, I've been seeing a girl quite frequently of late. I'm not an overly effusive man so I won't be surprised if this wasn't widely known. Though it is anyone's guess, I would like to think it is out of a sense of privacy or demarcation that causes me to shy away from writing about women in my life.

When one is involved in a relationship there is no shortage of nervousness, self-doubt, hopefulness, or joy. Though a relationship takes shape within the wider world it is truly a smaller world of its own. As a relationship progresses reality narrows slightly and the periphery occurrences become a slight blur. Eventually the relationship blossoms and blends back into the wider world. It becomes a part of the day to day reality...you exist again as a part of the world.

Though there has been plenty of hopefulness and joy, thus far there has also been no shortage of self-doubt and nervousness. These feelings haven't necessarily been linked to Sara, the girl I've been dating, as much as they have been linked to the larger situation of dating.

Despite intermittent experiences with children as a teenager, I've never been exposed to them too much. I grew up without cousins, none of my siblings or step-siblings have thus far produced any offspring. I've lived a baby free existence for the most part. When you add this to the general uncertainty that surrounds any burgeoning relationship, it would be safe to say that I was fairly nervous about being around Sara's daughter, Gabby.

My ignorance of children knew no bounds. I was unsure how to behave, how to interact, what to say...But, like any new experience, whether it's your first year of high school or moving to a new city, it's never as bad as you might fear. The adaptability of human nature always proves itself worthy of the knee shaking task. Occasionally my tongue gets the better of me and out slips a "hell" or a "damn." As I continue to moderate my language (a true task for me)my fondness for her and her mother have grown.

My relationship with these two ladies has come at a price though. Often as I sit and watch Gabby I'm overcome with an incredibly paralyzing fit of thought. There is a level of innocence and purity associated with young children that I've never really experienced before first hand and it floors me. I've almost come to tears...Answers as to why are beyond me. Perhaps I feel that I'll never become a part of that world...that I'm removed and can never experience it for myself. Perhaps it is that the innocence will eventually be ruined...the passing of time will mar the beauty of a child. Perhaps I sense the inherent tragedy in life...? Whatever it is that sends me against the wall, whatever it is that brings me to the point of tears...I both want and dislike it. I enjoy the overbearing sense of wonderment and thought it brings to me but I also fear the power and profundity that patiently wait on the edge of my thought process, like lions in the bush.

We are thrown together in this world and we enjoy it while we can. We hide our souls and only timidly do we let our nature out. As time passes and trust is gained, bit by bit the truth of who we are is shown. Whether life will take us anywhere is still unknown.

The Spectacle of Cinema

As a rule I try to stay calm and collected. This convention of control was breached the other day. After a couple years of cajoling my friend, Kiran, finally watched the inimitable Paul Newman in "The Hustler." A back and forth of messages ensued where I began a rant against the current state of cinema.

I'm not a fetishist for a supposed "golden age" of film. There have been countless productions in recent years that I love just as much as anything else produced in any other era. Despite this, I have a feeling that there's been an overall slide in quality.

The stimulus for this rant was both a remark Kiran made about "Pirates of the Caribbean II" (henceforth: POTCII) and my own recent viewing of "Step Brothers" with Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly. They play middle-aged men who still live with their parents. Despite the obviousness of the plot vehicle (parents marry, move in with child, fights and hijinks ensue) the movie's potential greatness lay within the satirization of the ever lengthening span of modern childhood. While this aping of the prorogation of adulthood has it's own comedic value, the bulk of the humor rested in the audience's ability to imagine the crass petulance of Ferrell and Reilly being acted out by actual children.

Perhaps it's obvious to note that the general plot and story arc were both formulaic. That, in and of itself, wasn't the spark of my rant. What I found in "Step Brothers"
was the continuing trend of Ferrell's absurdist brand of (crass) humor. A branch of comedy that no longer seems to place much importance on timing or wit. Instead it relies on the ability to say the most off the wall thing that pops into one's head. Though absurdism has its place, though I laughed quite a bit during the movie, I left with a feeling that I was perhaps perpetuating some larger problem in America by contributing to the success of that film.

The other side of this cinematic equation are spectacle films, like POTCII, Tristan & Isolde, National Treasure, or even Kingdom of Heaven. These movies place a priority on attention grabbing stunts as well as contrived romances and story lines. While there have certainly always been "spectacle" films, it seems that they've begun to dominate the entire action genre.

Throughout history there has always been a human urge for a spectacle. There are of course the obvious spectacles of past (gladiators) and present (modern sports) but what strikes me is the overall rise of the "spectacle" in our everyday life--from obsessive coverage of stars like Brittney Spears or Brett Favre to the rise of reality television and the explosion of movies like POTCII. This of course leads me down a dangerous thought path. It all makes me wonder if there is any correlation with the death, so to speak, of the "traditional" spectacles like traveling fairs. Or, could it be more about our own voyeuristic appetites? As the world continues to evolve, as it continues to shrink, as the ability of science grows, does our own craving for a spectacle apart from us expand?

In all likelihood the explanation can be simplified along lines of taste more than anything. Perhaps my own personality is reflected in my film tastes. Perhaps one's taste in movies is just a perverted manifestation of narcissism. I'm one for words and subtlety, thus I reject films that severely lack both. My lament to Kiran was that the popularity of these movies filled with spectacle and empty lines have come at a cost of finding movies like "The Hustler," ones that present a structured plot, intelligent dialogue, and well formed characters. These carefully crafted movies still exist. Being back home I quickly realized the unfortunate impossibility of ever seeing them in the theater. Put it down as another casualty of life in a smaller town. Put it down as another reason to be thankful for my Netflix subscription.

Life & Time on the River

It seems I might have missed the event of the summer here. Over the past few weeks I had been hearing gushing praise for a band due to play Friday & Saturday nights at a venue downtown. The tone of the praise could be described as a mix of reverence and excitement.

My own reception of this praise was a mix of embarrassment and surprise. I couldn't believe that The Klocks were an unknown entity to me yet all of Fort Smith seemed to be agog. Generally, even if I don't know their music, the band's name will at least strike a resonant chord somewhere in the recess of my head. A name like "The Klocks" seems to hold a faint residue of hipsterdom so I was naturally surprised (and relieved) to find out they were just a party band, which is to say a cover band. For some reason I'm filled with the Seinfeldian urge to tack on a "not that there's anything wrong with that" anytime I refer to someone as a "cover band."

The hidden embarrassment and subsequent relief I experienced upon finding out that The Klocks were a cover band rests largely in my perception of myself. My thought process ran somewhat close to "how could these people, my fellow Fort Smithians, know a band that I, former resident of Austin and music lover, not know about?" I'm not entirely sure what's more embarrassing, the possibility of not knowing a band or the arrogance it requires to be embarrassed about it. An additional and unfortunate subtext is the quiet slight I gave this band by being relieved they were a cover band. Evidently it's acceptable to not know them as such.

Mixed within this is the unintentional irony of altered expectations. Austinites, like many dwellers of urban areas, are spoiled by the plethora and availability of acts and venues. One expects to be able to hear a class act on any night of the week. These expectations are wholly justified. Compare this situation to Fort Smith and one might think a depression would settle over me. While at times I miss being able to run down to the Hole in the Wall on a random Wednesday night, my own expectations shifted with my move home.

Life in a smaller town, with its slower pace, serves to intensify whatever minor events occur. When someone comes to town, even a popping covers act, it warrants the attention of the masses. Due to illness I unfortunately still do not have a first hand experience of The Klocks but even this unexperienced experience illustrates the ever changing landscape of my adaption to life here in the river city.

The Community of Music

Aside from casual references I generally avoid writing about music. It's not for any lack of interest in music itself but as a result of aversion towards propagating my own tastes. For some reason I feel it smacks of elitism. There is no real logic behind this since I have never been too shy to promote my affection for a film (this stance is as illogical as my distaste for blogs before creating An Arkansan Abroad) ). I've always been slightly amused with elitist inclinations, especially when it comes to something like music. This, I think, is mainly due to my own preponderance for these tendencies. Despite this, I think that I've shied away from sharing my own tastes here out of self-consciousness and not out of elitist parsimony.

As a music lover I've always been somewhat of an outcast among the majority of my friends. Of the set who actually like music, my tastes might be deemed too old fashioned. For those that don't have an interest in music (at the risk of being elitist myself I should say, "taste in music") my tastes are too out there, too avant garde. This paradox is possible not out of fact but thanks to each sets particular interests, of which the latter ingests a semi-steady diet of popular radio tunes and the former a steady diet of independent and cutting edge artists.

Ironically it seems that everyone, myself included, deems their particular taste in music superior in some way to others. This is self-evident in those who like to pride themselves on "discovering" artists or bands. Getting in on the ground floor, so to speak, grants the person a sense of cultural hipness they are unable to find in listening to more established acts. Ancillary to this, and another manifestation of elitist tendency within music lovers, is the inclination for some to stop liking an artist once they become "mainstream." Though I openly accept my guilt for multiple hypocritical elitist stances over the years, I think this is one character flaw of which I'm largely free. Sure, I might bemoan the large concerts and pine for the intimate shows of the past but I try not to begrudge an act for "making it." The confluence of music and "elitism" is a paradox. Music, like food, is a communal expression, one that is best loved with others. And preferably those "others" will be loving it with you.

Perhaps I am alone in this sentiment but all of my favorite concerts were just as influenced by the people I was with as much as the particular artist or band. That communal experience, the exchange of knowing smiles as the guitarist hits a certain note or swaying along with your girlfriend as the vocalist croons your song, always makes the event worthwhile. Whether it was screaming along to My Morning Jacket with Kasia and the Dove or watching Cookies twisting across the front of the stage at Lambert's, it has always been those closest to me who push a musical experience over the top.

Helios & Me

Something inside me has changed over the last year. Since my travels took me to locales spread over three continents this might seem to be an obvious and somewhat understated comment. Change is of course the essence of travel, as it broadens horizons and educates.

Though I was fortunate to experience things I never dreamed I would, the change I've felt is not one of outlook. For lack of a better word, it's a "chemical" change. Something in my body has been thrown off kilter. I'm not ill, just off balance.

In the past I've been accused of having tendencies that were somewhat akin to a toddler. These have ranged from the way I walk to irritable behavior when I'm hungry. Even though I could become cranky when hungry, that reaction paled in comparison to my cantankerous nature when hot. I would become borderline dysfunctional. The fact that I was hot was all that I could think about. I was like a kitten with yarn, my focus was singular.

So you might have a better idea of what I'm trying to flesh out I should give some parameters. First, I love sports. I'm a competitor. I never shy away from athletic endeavors because of the heat. Sweat was okay when I was active. My problem was when I was inactive. When I was idle I expected a certain level of comfort and the warm temperature prevented this.

This has all changed somehow. To my own dismay I now enjoy the heat. Even though I'm blond and fair skinned, I find myself craving the sun. I drop the car windows in the summer when I would always pump the air conditioning. I sit outside to read when I once would lay on my bed under a fan.

Despite the fact that I like this "chemical" change, even though I like this "new" version of me, I'm at a loss to explain it. There are any number of scenarios that could be cast as an answer--the influence of a lover, my decision to replace my car with a bike last summer, or the act of travel itself. There is also the possibility that it is some sort of genetic or hormonal shift.

For the first time in my life I experienced what I would call an actual winter. Granted, Paris, France is a far cry from Fairbanks, Alaska but it is still a lot more of a winter than I ever saw growing up in Arkansas. There was of course the occasional snow or ice storm but I also have many memories of wearing shorts in January. The past six or seven years I spent in Austin were even warmer (a song by Brian Keane sums Austin winter up: "where the winter lasts from five to seven days"). As a result, I think that my body was not prepared for winter in Paris. It's not that it was that cold but it was constantly cold. Growing up in the south one expects a day to day variation of weather, most especially in the winter months. My own neurotic theory is that my body was sent into some sort of shock, a heat deprived trauma that induced a genetic need for the sun's warmth.

Since I will never truly know the exact origins of what sparked the changes within me, I choose to see it as one large amalgamation of influence, in other words: life. I suppose in a larger sense it doesn't matter much how a change is effected, just that personal stagnation is kept at bay. Once again I'm going to run the risk of seeming trite but my life this past year was without parallel. It had its ups and downs like ever other year but the experience was so visceral, so eidetic. Which, if you get down to it, that experience of truly living is really what I love about life. Perhaps it might even be the hidden reason for why I crave the heat now: the sensation reminds me I'm still here in this world.

The Dream Routine

Anyone that knows me also knows how routine oriented I am. This is readily apparent in my life. No matter the situation I will seek to create a pattern.

As a traveler this habit was often muted somewhat or, in brief intervals, completely lost. Even in those instances of travel I sought to create a sense of order out of chaos by making lists of things to do or see. While living in France I settled into a sort of routine on most days that was largely based around my writing. Self-fulfilling activities are easy to prioritize when you have minimal responsibility. An ocean away from my reality and with nothing in way of true responsibility in front of me, finding time to write was easy. At times, it was too easy. Because I knew I had so much time I was more apt to put off a larger task I had set for myself.

Back in Arkansas, back in reality, time with a pen is harder to find. Even though I've instinctively sought to create a routine, one with time to write and read, it is still hard to accomplish. It's so easy to get lost in our day to day world that we lose sight of a larger purpose or an overriding goal. My own aim is to advance myself as a writer. Perhaps this might be easier without a job, a Netflix subscription, errands to run, or grapes to wash but it wouldn't be reality.

I've never tried to hide from the world, only to live in it in my own way, no matter the cost. Returning from France I was at the end of a line and unsure where my next cast would fall. Through fate I've stumbled upon a new line to run down, replete with its own tasks and challenges. For the time being, my own aspirations and goals come at the cost of a life resembling many others. Though I hope I can work in enough time with a pen to justify this existence, I fear that unless these aspirations come to fruition, my efforts at staving off a life of routine and reality will have been in vain.