Introductions, Cure, Promises

I arrive at the decision to try blogging through a path that has led me to many of the interesting things in my life, namely on a structured whim with deep roots. That is to say, I had the sudden urge to begin for real, to just get something out there, simply because my dear friend was showing me her blog, and it struck me that she was writing and posting the sorts of things that I had long wished to toss out in the world, but which I had never found an appropriate setting for, as the restrictive and sickening setting of a twitter vent account lends itself only to bile-filled spirals, and despite many years of progress lost and gained I have yet to ever feel entirely at ease simply spewing any semi-structured thoughts in the DMs of even the best of friends. Writing is both a difficulty, and yet also a necessity to me to channel my best thoughts. Unfortunately I've never been very good at finding the appropriate setting to write in more than a tweet form, outside of the academic writing which I hope to do for a living. As fulfilling as that writing can be, structured research papers can never substitute for the introspection and clarity of a post like this

That explanation provides the acute need I feel, which I hope this blog might fulfill, but there is also a somewhat longer history. I first realized I wanted to write a journal of some kind (I have abandoned the need for that particular format for reasons soon to be explained) approximately 8 years ago, around the age of 14 or 15, for very juvenile and melodramatic reasons that I wanted some record of all my grievances and suffering (of fumbling a beautiful girl in middle school) in the case that I soon killed myself. But I never tried then. I've never been good at starting things. They have a way of just lingering with me for a while, morphing in their conception in my mind. For years I would have these fantasies of grandiose suicide notes, treatises, essays, novels, a literary canon to petty suffering that would leave my mark on the world. Of course the self obsession of these fantasies is just a testament to how fiercely obsessed I am with myself and the continuance of my own life. Which leads us to the present moment, many years latter, to my (our) still half-baked nature, but on a path of development.

I want this to be a place where I can get some thoughts out, the sorts of thoughts that line my subconscious but which, after years of practiced repression, sublimation, redirection, and avoidance, have become hard to think explicitly without the sort of process of free-thinking writing. At the same time, having the tendency to spiral into obsessive negativity, I want to promise myself to not let myself get bogged down into the minutiae of my ever present depressive fixations, self-destructive obsessions and absurd compulsive flagellating ethical pathologies. I have many ideas of things I want to muse, but all are half baked, which I think is perfect here. But we will see. I have no plans for structure. But we will see.

A second goal, somewhat roped into this post entirely so I can bring up what a cool little film nerd I am, is to begin thinking my way out of isolation, to build myself back into someone who can consistently experience intersubjectivity, meaning a sense of being truly commensurable to others in my interactions with them, rather than feeling that either they or I are lacking something fundamental to existence. If this is alien to you I apologize, I may try to explain better at a later date. If you understand this viscerally as though staring into a mirror, well, I also apologize.

Clunkily, I want to connect this sense to the fears at the core of one of my favorite films: Cure (1997) dir. Kiyoshi Kurosawa (Kurosawa the Younger). This psychological neo-noir thriller is the masterpiece of the younger Kurosawa, and focuses on a serial killer who hypnotizes people to kill others. SPOILER: the killer himself is nothing more than a vessel, having himself been hypnotized. The film channels this oozing undercurrent to postmodernity, an anxiety of rootless violence, of 'psycopathy' as a meme. Kurosawa's films speak to very Japanese anxieties in many ways, but also to a general condition of society, where we find it difficult to operate on the same plane as others. There's this gorgeous scene near the start where the killer is wandering around on the beach aimlessly, and talks to a man. The plot is less important to me here than the mise-en-scène. The colors are dull, the ocean feels crushing, the two figures are together but feel dwarfed by their surroundings. There's a loneliness to it. I feel like this shot is really key to the sentiment of the whole film, these two people are talking to each other, but they're both empty in their own ways, despite being right next to each other they're both totally alone, surrounded and penetrated by an emptiness. It's that emptiness I seek to annihilate in myself. Everything in this world pushes us to be lonelier, to make less of ourselves, to seek out less, to try less, to be less. In my own way, I want to fight an infinite front war against this, and make the most of myself in every aspect, and hopefully inspire others to do the same.