A Hazy Shade of Spring?

    I’ve been hanging out with someone from Mt. Holyoke College, a nearby all girls school, almost every Friday night for the past month or so and I have discovered something that might deter me from these trips. It is really bleeding foggy near that place in the spring. I mean, it is scary driving through that mess! Always traveling at night was intimidating to begin with, since the road bends and twists like a confused anaconda and limits my vision to about a hundred yards. Now I have to slow to a crawl to get through. It’s bad enough that I’m worried about a deer or a person running out in front of me when I can’t see them, yet the icing on the cake is that the fog itself is eery. Normally I enjoy walking through fog in the day or night, as the mist swirls into interesting shapes and I can pretend that I’m walking through any fog-drenched fantasy world that I like, as I cannot see anything to contradict me.
    However, this fog is something else entirely. It doesn’t drift in languid swirls so much as twists and contorts, writing into leering shadows or simply blinding me for spite. More light doesn’t help, as the water reflects my headlights back into my eyes, dazzling me and exposing nothing. When the fog seems to be at its thickest and the dark impenetrable and I am resigned to creeping through the murk, I’ll break through. As if breaking a barrier or breaching the surface of a glassy lake, I crash into a perfectly clear night. In my rearview mirror the mist seems solid and taunting, observant, and I am only too glad to put it behind me. Until five minutes later anyhow and I plow straight into another fog bank just like the first. As I’m a blond teenager in the middle of essentially the woods, at three in the morning, and in ominous fog, part of me begins to wonder if I’ve wandered into a horror flick. Leaving that town feels like escaping Silent Hill and every five minutes I expect a pyramid head to jump out at me, or whatever the monsters in those games are called. I never played them.
    B-film horror or not, I feel ecstatic when I near Amherst and the night becomes natural again. Straight roads and an unobstructed view never look so good. Between that sort of drive and my antics at Mt. Holyoke, when I see my bed at about five a.m., it to me appears as a lake might to a man lost in a desert. I dive into the sheets and stay submerged until midday.
    I should mention that, over this last weekend, I got slammed with about three hundred pages of reading, an essay, a film to watch and review, and a six page stats assignment all as homework due for Monday. The moment I woke up to realize that I hadn’t even started and it was already half-way through Saturday was not so much distressing as depressing. I was looking at the gallows and there was no way I was getting off the platform. So what do I do? I plant myself in a chair and bury my nose in a book, feverishly working to meet my deadlines.
    For about an hour that is. I found out that there was some sort of carnival going on in the honors college and there was food, rock climbing, and a petting zoo among other things. I need a break, my sleep-deprived brain says, dominating the small fraction that is still awake and screaming for me to work. Thus, I went to meet some friends and, after getting something to munch on, proceeded to ignore everything except for the petting zoo because oh my god the ducklings, bunnies, chicks, baby goats and micro pig were adorable! Best school sponsored carnival ever!
    Once I spent over an hour with my friend Yoonjin snuggling fluffy adorable cuddly squeaky squirmy endearing proto-breakfast animals, I returned to the grindstone for all of two hours before I remembered an important detail that had slipped my mind: One of my best friends on campus was having their birthday party that night. Crap.
    I had planned on tearing through as much work as possible before the dance that the honors college had scheduled for us around 9pm. This changed things a bit. Instead of working, I ended up playing cards against humanity, munching on chocolate, and nearly choking on Sprite when something particularly offensive made me laugh. Since my friend is a dance major I thought that, once we were done with cards, we would manage to catch the last few hours of dancing and I’d be able to cut loose and go wild. Not so. I forgot just how averse this group of friends is to having fun- I mean- partying. I love them and almost always have a great time with them, but they are not the extroverted club-goers that I keep yearning for. Then again, those Bacchanalian kids typically aren’t as creative, witty, or accepting as my beloved geeks.
    Once the card game ended we just sort of… hung out. I knew that it was Erica’s birthday and I wanted to help her enjoy it as much as possible, but I was getting downright morose sitting there. I had nothing to do and was envying her having a romantic relationship, all while being overly conscious of the dancing that I was missing out on. To be honest, I really should’ve ditched. I was probably a wet blanket by that point anyhow. No one wants to hang around someone who doesn’t want to be there. I was bursting to release pent up energy, meet new people, and act without restraint or concerns. By the time I slithered into bed I was still stressed, sad, and a little angry, though I’m not sure at what. It didn’t help that my roommate came back with two of his friends ten minutes after I fell asleep. He’s normally pretty inconsiderate with his crashing around at night to begin with, but when he’s drunk there’s a proper ruckus. Multiply the sound he makes while drunk by three due to his drunk friends and half again due to them all being high and I was awake before they even opened the door. Luckily they were polite enough to leave. Unluckily they were not smart enough to move away from the door while laughing and shouting in the hall. That set a trend for a whole week of sleep deprivation. Starting then I averaged on about four hours each night.
    I don’t know if it was this sleep deprivation or my frustration with life in general that primed me for a career advising session that upset me in every way. For the last two years or so I’ve been laboring to get into the film industry. I had thought that film was the next best thing to novels and my father had taught me that, with the variety of jobs, I would have work and would be able to live while writing novels in my free time. I had made becoming a successful director my objective to support my ultimate goal of becoming a novelist and had planned on learning some technical skills so that I could at least work as an editor until I got a better job. I didn’t want to face the fact that the industry demands absurdly long and bizarre hours, that funneling my time and creativity into the job would leave nothing for my writing, and that becoming someone with any amount of creative say in a film is unlikely. Furthermore, I’ve been doing research on these jobs and have found that, with the exception of the highest demand occupations such as writers, directors, and producers, the pay is sub-par or just plain bad while each practitioner has to hunt for a new job when each project ends. The career counselor stated all of those facts aloud and then added other goodies like how there are no more unpaid internships in Hollywood due to a lawsuit after The Black Swan was made, even though you’re expected do do six or eight before you get even a low end job in the field.
    The meeting set my head spinning. While it encouraged me to continue pursuing novels, I was unsure of how good of an idea sticking with my Film Production and English double major was. When two days later I had my fifth session of editing one of the school’s TV shows, which is mind numbing and tedious, I realized that I only get a kick out of working on creative stuff or my own projects, so broadcast news and talk shows became undesirable. What does that leave for me? Advertising? The imagination needed for that sort of thing is attractive, but I’m not sure my morals would allow me to stoop so low as to join that industry.
    In short, I’m not sure what I want to do with my life anymore. I think I’ve decided that I don’t want to do film, but I don’t know what work I do want until I start publishing books. I think the law would be interesting and David Baldacci practiced law for nine years before he published anything. However, I’ve no experience with that field and don’t know if it would really engage me and I’m not so deluded as to think that I wouldn’t be working 60 hours a week in that field, much like film would have me doing. Even though I would be making money with the law, I don’t want to become a slave to cash by doing something I hate. I could probably find some sort of internship nearby to get a taste of the practice, but I’ve had no luck yet. Even if I did go into the law, how much time would I have for writing? Not much.
    I’m lost. I can’t see any answers and I’m starting to wonder if the choices I made with my education were bad ones. Every career path that I can think of sounds either insecure or monotonous. I know that I’m only a freshman, but I liked having a path before me, even though it was an illusion. At least then I had a purpose. Before Tuesday, I had a goal. Before Tuesday, I was cruising along just fine. Now I’ve again dived into the fog and this fog doesn’t encourage fantasizing and adventure. It is not comforting or peaceful. It is dark, cold, damp, sinister, and I cannot see the way out.

    But hey, the next two Mistborn books are coming out this year, so I can’t be too upset! I’ll lose myself in someone else’s fantasy until I can sort out my own reality.

On a More Serious Note

    This has been a strange week. While it’s not been totally bizarre in the way that Halloween in Chester was, it has brought me on a trip to Boston where, aside from visiting the Museum of Fine Arts, I got to do the hipster thing by visiting a café on Newbury Street, I accompanied some girls through more clothing stores than I usually visit in an entire year, there was some reconciliation with an enemy, and I bought a whole crate of mangos from a farmers’ market for two bucks. I’d say the mangos were the best part of the trip. A few days later, I found myself despising these “religious freedom” bills that have been cropping up like crabgrass across the states, yet after five minutes of disgust I was glad that the whole thing had happened! Bear with me on this one.
    Lacking my usual friend to chat with on the bus to my film class, I started reading the New York Times. Almost half of the day’s articles were about the Arkansas governor trying to pass a “religious freedom” bill in his state which had apparently been modeled after similar bills in about twenty other states. I hadn’t been keeping up with what was going on around me (I live under a very cozy rock) so when I came across this article, I didn’t understand the implications. I thought for a moment that a southern governor was being tolerant and promoting actual religious freedom, perhaps for Muslims or Pagans. That would have been news-worthy. Of course, once I finally understood the bill’s implications about allowing businesses to discriminate against homosexuals, I became… aggravated. I can’t say that I was really disappointed, because this is just par for the course south of The Bible Belt. However, to be frank, I was actually kind of impressed with the bill. It’s one of the most effective and cleverly crafted deliberate loopholes I've come across. The name by itself is misleading (as evidenced by my reaction until I read about what the loophole entails) and the bill itself has no directly discriminatory language in it. What it fails to say is that the loophole that would create open season on already abused people. The act is still revolting, but I am impressed on an unbiased socio-cultural level. Sort of like how a entomologist might find a dung beetle fascinating.
    After a few minutes of queasiness that probably had nothing to do with being on a bus, I started to appreciate the whole thing for another reason. I then became outright happy. Normally abuse of power and violating human rights and privileges would make me me what to kill something, but not that day; not after reading about the country’s response at least. Look at it this way: This "religious freedom" hogwash is having a benefit because all of the states that passed it are getting economic and social backlash, especially Indiana. The New York Times reported that several major businesses have spoken out against these bills and even cancelled expansion plans in some of these states as a punitive measure. Even Walmart is threatening economic retaliation! Who’d have thought that the evil empire with its poorly treated employees would actually take the side of the underprivileged? Performers and sports teams are canceling tours and the governors of Connecticut, New York and Washington have imposed bans on state-funded travel to Indiana. I love it! That so many people are publicly united against a form of discrimination that would have been nationally supported twenty years ago is amazing! This is one of the biggest joint attacks on homosexual discrimination by corporate and private sectors that I've ever even heard of! It kind of makes me want to dance.
    For this same reason, I just want to say that I love Madison Wisconsin. I have never been there, I’ve probably never even seen a picture of it and couldn't find it on a map, but they’ve voted to ban discrimination against Atheists! If they’re making non-religion a protected class and setting that sort of precedent, then they have my undying gratitude and support! The fact that this legislation was passed without opposition makes me think that there might be some hope for humans yet. There's still a big difference between implementing a law and the people following its spirit, but typically legislation passes as a reflection of public sympathies I've found.
    That night I saw a Latvian woman’s attempt at making suicide and depression comical. The film studies program was screening “Rocks in my Pocket,” an independent, animated film about the director’s family history of depression. It was pretty much a cartoon made with traditional methods like hand-drawn pictures and claymation. While it had some interesting transitions, the style was simplistic and a bit, well, boring despite the engrossing symbolism. The tone was usually upbeat even when talking about suicide, the film was intended to amuse, and the director did all of the voice-over and narration, which felt sort of jarring when she tried to imitate male voices. I wasn’t sure how to feel about it at first. Once the film ended, I was still a bit thrown by how abstract the entire thing had been and how different from every other serious film about depression that I’d seen. As I listened to the Q&A section afterward, I decided that I rather liked the style. I typically only go in for high-end animation, along the lines of Miyazaki or even “Looney Tunes” and this film was nowhere near that level. Regardless, the simplicity worked in its favor. I realized as I sat there that, unlike most films on that subject, I was not a morose wreck by the end. The colorful, generally unthreatening images made it much easier to handle the subject for some and made the powerful message accessible to others. It took until I walked out of the improvised cinema that UMass had set up for the emotions to strike. Trying to unchain my bike, my fingers slipped over the metal links, fumbling with the lock as my eyes lost focus. I didn’t see the road I travelled to get back to the dorm. I wasn’t out of control though. I was able to appreciate the emotions without letting them overwhelm me. This was the third time that I’d gone to a visiting artist’s presentation and the second one that had elicited a remarkable feeling in me. I decided that attending the visiting artists might be one of my favorite things to do here.
    What endeared the film to me the most was how open the narrator was with the issue. Okay, the giant lobster claws and carnivorous bunnies were entertaining too. The director didn’t beat about the bush, diving into both how harrowing the condition is and how misunderstood its victims are. During her time, she explained why people with depression would hide their condition in the USSR. The anti-depressants back then turned your brain to jelly and the majority of people saw the depressed as pathetic and weak. They didn’t see depression as a chemical imbalance. They believed that depression was a lack of willpower and moral fortitude on the victim’s part. It was apparently preferable to say that you were schizophrenic. At least that wasn’t your fault, right?
    Bullshit.
    We know now that depression is like any other mental illness and beyond the victim’s control or “willpower” and I’d like to say that the depressed are understood and accepted now. Except that’s not entirely true. While society treats the afflicted better compared to fifty years ago, popular belief still holds that it’s a matter of willpower and such a “deficiency” is shameful. Only a few months ago I overheard some guy saying how little pity he had for those with anxiety and depression.
    “They should just make the effort to stop doing it,” he said, as if it were a deliberate action. “They just need to bother.”
    Oh how close I was to acquainting him with the ground… I didn’t in the end, but I did chew him out loudly and publicly enough to garner the attention those around us and make the little bastard shrink into his seat. I doubt he’s changed his mind. Nobody with any sort of conviction will change their mind, especially if more evidence that contradicts them is hurled their way. At least those around us might have heard the exchange.
    It all comes down to how public something is I guess. Homosexuality and depression were both swept under the rug because society deemed them shameful or sinful. The longer they stayed in hiding, the more ignorance propagated. Once they were brought into the light, the issues became subject to ridicule and abuse like never before because, suddenly, there were targets exposing themselves. Before the fifties you would have been hard pressed to find anyone who would admit to even their own mother that they were depressed or homosexual. Once they started declaring themselves and coming into the wrathful public eye, things got rough, as we’ve seen with abuses against the LGBT movement. However, the more time that they have forced themselves against that burning public eye, the more that eye was forced to examine them. With that much publicity and personal interaction, the eye can’t help but start to see the truth.
    The depressed are still misunderstood and homosexuals are still abused and misunderstood. At least our society’s talking about it though. Without dialogue and public awareness, enlightenment cannot flourish. Yes, the LGBT movement is still criticized, violated, and discriminated against, but so was the Indian Independence movement before that, the civil rights movement before that, and the Protestant Reformation ages before that. Pain is the price that we pay for equality. While some groups like the depressed have not been subject to nearly as much discrimination and have not needed to suffer so greatly before being recognized, pain was still required to get to that point. The LGBTQIA movement is far more widespread with far more people involved and set against prejudices ingrained far deeper than those against the depressed. This means more discrimination and violations before gaining equality. But look at the people’s response to the religious freedom bills! Yes there was a discriminatory act, but there was also an overwhelming rally against it! The dialogue is continuing and the abused have not surrendered. All things considered, I would say that this is progress. Because mistreatment is historically necessary to gaining liberty, I would say that these past few months’ events have brought pretty good things on balance. The public has shown support again. As I am a realist, I usually come off sounding a bit glum and tend to despair about the world. This, however, is making things look up.