April 05, 2004

Eternal Sunshine of the Agonic Mind

Nobody said it was easy
It's such a shame for us to part
Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be this hard
Oh, take me back to the start
- Coldplay

I don't go out much to places with people around. By "much," I mean "ever." I've lived in Brattleboro for almost a year and a half, and I've been to the movie theatre once and... well, that was it. I went down to a show in Northampton once, too, which I guess I should count so I don't seem entirely pathetic. It's not that I'm against going out, per se, it's just terribly terrifying going to places I don't know, drowning in the seas of anxiety and unfamiliar faces and exposed loneliness. If I were more comfortable, if I knew places better, I'm sure I would go out more.

When I lived in Corvallis, I used to hang out at the Interzone several nights a week, writing, scribbling, sketching in little notebooks I carried around. It was strangely soothing, and something I've come to miss recently. I write more now, much more, but it's always on my laptop, always at home. I miss recording those moments of people watching, those moments of staring at my Americano, those moments of shyly looking up, catching someone smiling at me, and wondering why I can't smile back. On Saturday, I bought notebook, a cheap paper notebook, and decided to try and get out more. Sit in a coffeeshop, go to the theatre (not that I would take my notebook there), the little things I enjoy, all things considered, but don't do.

The little Latchis blurb on Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind caught my eye a couple weeks ago, and it looked like something I'd really like, something thought-provoking and timely, something that would make me feel good. I kept putting off going, for all the usual reasons, and had resigned myself to wait for it to come out on DVD, as I've done with so many other movies that come through the theatre. But last night, with my nifty new notebook sitting on the table, inspiring me, and thinking so much, recently, of the uncertainty and ambivalence I have towards ever-present thoughts and feelings, I went and saw it.

Oh, the irony.

I had a vague idea of what ESotSM was about; I knew it concerned trying to erase memories of love, and about the trickiness of said memories, but nothing, really, of the details. Oh, the irony. I walked into the theatre while Jim Carrey was soliloquizing on the beach, writing into his little notebook, just thinking. I sat down, sort of dazed; I don't even know when the last time I felt such affinity with a theatrical character was. I intended to write about it when I got home, but I ended up just sitting on my futon, scrawling five words into my notebook, and staring at the wall.

Memory is something I often write about here because I'm never certain what it means, why it matters, and what to do with it. It's a powerful thing, an ever-present thing. It's not just a part of us, it is us; our entire identities are constructed through experience (phenomenologically-speaking). Usually, I'm worried about getting caught up in the nostalgia, in living life looking backwards because the past seems so much more pleasant, more comfortable, more certain than the present. I'm worried about clinging to the past too hard.

My memory box is just that-- a collection of memories. Memories, perhaps like love, are bittersweet, though. For all the happiness and warmth those memories give me, they also leave me sad and longing for those times again. Sometimes, too often, I think I get lost in the nostalgia, and live through memories, rather than reality.

I usually write about the good memories, the memories I miss. But I have other memories, of course: bad memories, painful memories, memories that still haunt me in the dark. I remember lying on the floor, feeling heavier and heavier, and wishing I hadn't swallowed all those pills, after all. I remember playing with Legos in my room, pretending I didn't hear my mom screaming to no one at all. I remember getting the email from Jen, "The one you're probably not gonna like so much."

And they do. They still haunt me in the dark. Things get better with time, of course, but it's a slow process, and one that is always incomplete. Sometimes, it's non-linear, too.

It still hurts, for sure, but rather than the "blah blah blah I'm so alone blah blah blah whiny bastard" pain, it's more of the "bumper cars can hurt, for sure, but there's still fun to be had" pain... This still sucks. I'm still hurting. But things get better with time.

When I wrote that, things were getting better. And they continued to get better. And then not so much. It started on the borders of night, when I was falling asleep and waking up, the borders that kept expanding. Then there were the reminders, the things I heard, or saw, or touched, the things that were ever more present. And then came the doubts, the doubts about everything.

I am over you. I think I am over you. I wish I were over you. I am not over you.

Of course, it's much more complex than that. I don't know what I would do if she wrote me, or I found her IP addresses in my server logs, or she sent a birthday card with stickers and smiley faces and hints of her quirky wit. It's horribly complex. And there's Life, Already in Progress, too. People I've met, conversations I've had, moments I've wished I could say just a little bit more. It's horribly, horribly complex. And it seems like things are getting worse.

I've been watching as the stitches start to loosen and break at the seams. I try to forget the painful memories, push them aside. It seems better, more helpful than clinging to the pain. And the more I notice things falling apart, the harder I try to stop thinking about it, hoping, wishing it'll just go away. Like slamming on the brakes when you start to fishtail.

I've never thought that I would be interested in losing all my memories connected to something or someone. There is always so much good inextricably linked up with the bad. It's bittersweet, and that's the good news. And I know that's the good news.

I don't know why I can't seem to forgive this framework of home, knowing, feeling, on some ineffable level that I already have. I don't know why this framework of home seems so negative, so awkward, so hurtful, when in fact, viewed contextually, it's something far more beautiful, more wondrous, and more complete that it appears: it reminds me both that what I experienced, what I felt, and maybe what I still feel was as real and wonderful and blissful as I remember, and, more importantly, perhaps, that I can feel that way again.

But as I start to spin out, as I try so hard to stop, as I push the painful memories from my mind more and more, all the blissful moments go too, and I'm left feeling empty and alone and in pain. There's no beauty; there's no wonder; there's just me, in the corner. And maybe not even that, because who am I without the pain/ joy, the happiness/ sorrow I've experienced? It seems, then, I don't need to visit some doctor and have a procedure to erase my memories. I'm already doing it, by myself, in a horribly bitter manner. Ignoring painful memories, trying to forget them seems to be as bad as clinging to them.

As Jim Carrey's character realizes how beautiful, how important his memories are, he changes he mind about wanting to lose them. "Stop the procedure," he calls out. But the memories keep disappearing, and he grows more and more desperate. "Let me keep just this one," he pleads near the end.

I loved ESotSM; it was artistic, and beautiful, and thought-provoking. But rather than giving me new things to think about, I think it ended up reminding me more of, and providing contrast to, the thoughts I was already having. Memories situate us where we are, which is the aspect that the characters in ESotSM were reacting against; but I think, more importantly, and one of the themes of the film, is that memories tell us who we are, as well.

This is about embracing Pascal's agonic doubt... This is about finding my way back. This is about remembering who, not where, I am. This is about living though the space in between.

Superficially, I want things to make sense, be rational, be less complex; I want to follow Descartes' quest for a constant methodology, a consistent life: I doubt, therefore I know, therefore I think, therefore I am. But I don't really believe life is like that. (Oh my God, a disbeliever in the Enlightenment Project; run for your lives!) Life isn't simple; it isn't ordered; it isn't even consistent. There are contradictory truths, irreconcilable dialectics and an inherent uncertainty to it all. Pascal, on the other hand, was looking for something different; his doubt was encompassing, agonic. He wasn't searching for rationality like Descartes, but rather for the dynamics that make us doubtful and uncertain and human. He wanted to embrace his agonic existance, not solve it. "The Cartesian wants to be rational, while the Pascalian wants to be a person," Michael Weinstein quips.

When the truth is I miss you
Yeah, the truth is that I miss you so
And I'm tired, I should not have let you go
- Coldplay

Isn't this the best part of breaking up
Finding someone else you can't get enough of
- Liz Phair

This is the complexity. This is the doubt. This is the dialectic. This is the space in between. Living through the space in between isn't about a journey somewhere, or a hurdle to pass, or a length of time, even. It's not about anything at all. It is something. In between is the complexity. In between is the doubt. In between is the dialectic.

Living through the space in between is living life.

Posted by Sean at April 5, 2004 05:56 PM

Comments

Posted by: celina at April 5, 2004 06:52 PM

Posted by: Sean at April 6, 2004 01:54 AM

Posted by: celina at April 6, 2004 03:03 AM

Posted by: kane at April 6, 2004 09:26 AM

Posted by: Sean at April 7, 2004 10:27 AM