| .............. |
A Hundred Times
[12.31.03]
He had just finished the last dinner of the year with his family. It was mandu-gook with some Coppola wine. The previous year, he remembered going to Montreal with his friends. It was a decent time, but he remembered the foreign feeling of seeing the ball drop hundreds of miles from home. Saying "Happy New Year" on the cell phone just didn't do it for him. This New Year's Eve, he would sit at home and reflect. He believed it was his "thing" - to be reflective and to give self-assessments.
He sat down at his desk and took out a blank piece of paper. On it, he wrote 'Henry' at the center. It was a strange feeling to see those letters together. He could not remember the last time he printed his name like that. He had signed many credit card receipts or typed up numerous papers, but seeing his name written out neatly on a blank sheet of paper made him pause slightly. So my name is Henry, he thought.
He tried to write down what was "important" in his life and what he wanted from it. Surely, the obvious would come first: health, family, and friends. He looked over at the short list and thought hard. He knew that health mattered most because without it, he would have less control over his own life, and everything else would matter so much less compared to the constant inner conflict with his own body. He was glad that he had good health. As for family and friends, they were people who he knew he could always live without but people who had allowed him to develop sentimental attachments and provided for him various conveniences during his lifetime. For him to be mentally comfortable, he felt that they were necessary. But if the past year had taught him anything, it was that he was a lot more independent than he used to believe.
He thought about more things to write down. Money. Intellect. Art. The first one sounded greedy and the last two sounded pretentious, but he knew their listing could be justified. As a member of a most brutal capitalist society, he knew that money meant many things - it meant survival at the most fundamental level (i.e. the ability to feed himself) and it also meant the power to "make himself" through the various manipulations of consumerism (i.e. nice clothes, social outings, latest electronics). And at the root of the money question was - how would he get more? He prioritized his goals for money - 1. internship for summer (long-term), 2. design websites, 3. more work-study hours. He often loathed the world's obsession with money, but admitted his own participation in the process.
Intellect was a different matter. He had a clear view of what it was to be an "intelllect" or to possess "intellect." It was a step-by-step process as well: 1. keep up to date on current affairs (politics, sports, pop culture, media, business), 2. read 80 pages a day, 3. write three times a week on various topics. He knew that those 80 daily pages would have to be qualified with good books, but just the thought of reading 560 pages a week assured him that intellect, because he believed he already possessed some of it, would be maintained.
Art. This was a nebulous area for him. He could never really write or think of the word without asking what it really meant. For him, it seemed as if the word assumed a new meaning every time. The other day, it was a beautifully written passage in a Russian novel and today it had been a series of effective montage shots in a documentary. He had decided to believe that art could be expressed through various media forms - drawing, painting, music, film, literature, etc. But he still had to think hard about what it meant for him. But he knew he would find the answer everytime: art, the activity of making something. His goals became lucid - 1. write a full-length screenplay, 2. continue a serial novel, 3. study design, 4. learn the art of branding. He thought of the term "Renaissance Man," the idea that a person can be skilled in various areas to the extent of being great via pluralism of abilities. Lofty goals, yes, but dreams often preempt accomplishments.
He held the piece of paper up and tried to gain some perspective. So, this is what my life is like or at least how I want it to be, he thought. It was a delicate tension between the practical and the ideal. Big words described a web of smaller actions. He recognized this self-imposed structure and delighted in his ability to organize life.
He had left out various things such as his long-term career goals, his "principles," and his "character," but he felt those things would address themselves during the course of his various endeavors. He also knew he had omitted something that always occupied his mind. Was it animal instinct? Was it a social necessity?
He put his paper down and went to the bathroom to pee. His house was quiet now. His parents were watching television in the living room and his younger sister had gone out to party with her friends. He washed his hands and looked at himself in the mirror. Is it that I don't look a certain way? Is it the way I think and act? Or is it the way the outer forces are conspiring against me so that the lack of "compatible" candidates becomes the blame? he shook his head and made a half-smile. He had thought less and less about her as the semester had worn on. With papers, tests, and other activities, he had seen her in passing a few times, but the urgency to know her name and to know more about her was not the same as the time he first saw her.
He returned back to his room. He scribbled one more line, below Art: "Her Name."
It was a few hours before the new year would begin. Jim was out in California for the break. He decided to send an e-mail and perhaps share his latest resolution.
Go back |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|