A Theory and a Criticism of a Generation of Non-Conformists

This may seem a little redundant, but at the present time, I feel it necessary to address what may be to some, a culture that lacks refinement, yet propagates the past in an attempt to mimic or yield former art or style as sophistication. Did that thesis statement-esque lead not entice you? Read some fucking scholarly articles. 

...Because we all love Bowie and listen to vinyl records. I know, we're not addicted to anything, but yeah, we've tried a few things... except pot. We smoke a lot of pot, and maybe cigarettes, but maybe not, or maybe too much. And we all play guitar covers of our favorite bands from middle school, or at least know someone who does. And we read Salinger and James, but Henry, not E. L. 

We walk in the park and go to preservations, yet binge-watch television series on Netflix because there's nothing on regular cable t.v. We post photos of our puppies and kitties and American flags and sushi. We want to be real American guys and gals, so we pound $2, 16-ounce cans of PBR, and we don't love IPAs, but if you're cute and 25 and wearing black-rimmed glasses, sure, we'll take one. We’ll just have to add a couple of extra reps at the gym tomorrow—for gains.

We idolize Lana Del Rey, dreadlocks and not identifying with a political party. Gen-X thinks we’re lazy and non-committal; passive; uneducated; unaware. Blasé blah, Gen-X. We learned from them that when the going gets tough, give up. The whole lot of them? Divorced.

We’re active online about issues like Ferguson, but if a meme of a dress pops-up on Twitter, it's all we'll talk about for the weekend. Then it’s, "that Michael Brown case is still a thing?” 

"Oh, there's a picture of Chris Pratt. I love him, he seems so down to earth. Didn't his show just end?”

“Emma Watson can’t act like she knows anything about inner beauty, she’s fucking gorgeous on the outside! What a crock of shit."

It’s an endless ADD feed that we've conceived. It’s all our own creation, but it controls us. 

And bouncing from one timely topic to the next, we still find ourselves hung up on that thing we said when we were drunk, or the look that girl just gave us, or our empty bank accounts, or the things we cannot change. We’re awake all night, whether it be dwelling or drinking, and asleep until 2, and we wanna drink again tonight but we're broke, but we'll see you at the bar anyway, after Taco Bell and a nap.

This is our lifestyle. We’re not original, but we believe ourselves to be. We romanticize the idiosyncratic, that at one time people found shocking, or taboo. We reinvent things that shouldn’t be imitated; they were better left untouched. We venerate the different, the eldritch, in the name of aestheticism. And I cannot ascertain if this is good or not.

Have we twisted history’s Greats to fit our own societal mores' desires, or can we simply not come up with anything unique on our own, because we’re too distracted consuming all of this media, all of the time? To know where you’re going, you have to know where you’ve been, they say… But if we’re redoing what’s already been done, we can’t go anywhere.

We’re all trying to figure out who we are and what we want. And I know who I am. I am a refinement snob. I am better than the pop culture standard set by Justin Bieber and "Twilight." I listen to real artists, like Sinatra and Led Zeppelin. I love the "Three Stooges" and the original "Twilight Zone." But I am not too good for HBO or Lady Gaga. See the contradiction I deny? Enough Taylor Swift, I want more Lorde! These examples have less to do with taste, and more to do with criterion I’ve established.

I know who I am, because I hate that person, and I wish for the life of me I wasn’t that person. She is the least original who claims to be a non-conformist. I am the pauper pretending to be a prince. I too wish for the life of me I had an effective conclusion to my thesis. Yet, in the interest of representing my generations’ value of the avant-garde, I choose to quote the infamous Cary Grant; “Ah, beware of snobbery; it is the unwelcome recognition of one’s own past failings.”

For you, Little Girl

Dearest Child,

You are 7 right now, and this is mostly when your memories will begin. You have a long way to go, my dear, and adulthood isn’t all that you think it’s going to be. Don’t rush it. There will come a time when all you’ll want is to return to mischief in the woods, building forts behind the shed, (you haven’t done that yet, but you will soon.) You’ll miss the plastic jungle gym that you’ll soon grow much taller than, even when it’s replaced by the pool. And enjoy that pool, you’ll move a few years after it’s built to a brand new house with no fence, no pool. Don’t worry, though, you’re not moving too far from your friends, but eventually you’ll understand that the true friends are the ones that stick by you no matter how far away you are.

You and your closest brother will grow apart soon since the baby’s here, and you’ll come together again in a while, but those in-between years are going to be tough. Just remember not to get upset when he kicks your ass, and that’ll end anyway when you get to high school. Forget about the terrible mistakes he’s going to make, because you know they’re not intentional. When you reattach, he’ll ask for advice, and when you realize you don’t know anything, he’ll drop almost anything to help you, often. The doofus that’ll soon strike you with a Wiffle ball bat as you climb down from the tree in the front yard, (yeah! you’ll get to climb that!) will turn back into the kid who ran down the sidewalk to greet you as you hop off the bus, home from your first day of kindergarten. I bet you don’t remember that. (I don’t either.) Except in the future, he’ll be racing up route 81 at 4 in the morning to pick your ass up from jail. 

Those Christmas presents from Santa are really from some non-profit who got in touch with mom, and that’s okay—she’s doing her best. You know, she had to file bankruptcy when she lost your sister, (that’s why dad buys those angels for her every year,) and her hospital stay without insurance drained mom and dad’s accounts. I know you kind-of know all this from the whisper-conversations at the kitchen table, but I want to make it clear that you shouldn’t be embarrassed. Your parents are poor now, but that is going to change in a few years, and when it does, you’ll miss this old lifestyle more than you could imagine. You’ll realize that “poor” has less to do with money and more to do with relationships and possessions and worth. Everything has worth, dear girl. And how you value it establishes its worth. And if you value everything as gold, you’ll be far richer than Oprah, (she’s a billionaire, you’ll learn.)  

Someday, you’ll resent your mom for trying to control your life. Be patient. Then, you’ll be best friends. Appreciate it, because when she breaks your trust and ruins your hope in love, you’ll miss her. She won’t really leave you, but it won’t ever be the same. Tell her you love her, even when you’re mad at each other. Things will be complicated, but you never know what could happen.

Then, dad, you’ll come to butt heads with, and you’ll realize that nothing you do is good enough for him. But that isn’t true. When he asserts after your duet in the 6th grade chorus concert, “you did good, but you could have been louder," know that he only sees your potential. He only wants the best for you. That’s why he works so long and often, and when he unwinds with too much bourbon at the end of the day, understand that his frustration is not with you. You’re too much alike, you and him, and you’ll see one day that what you think is your own inadequacy disappointing him is really his own dissatisfaction with himself.

When cousin Brian tells you that Santa isn’t real, and you still believe for two more years, don’t be ashamed. It’s not the figure so much that’s important, it’s the ability to hope that you’re carrying out. It’s spirit. I’m proud of that. And when he tells you that your parents smoke pot, relax. You’ll end up doing the same, and no matter what you present in your 5th grade D.A.R.E. speech, don’t ever believe that weed is a drug. Alcohol, however is a different story. Be careful. You’ll see. And don’t be so hard on mom for smoking cigarettes, because you don’t know how you’ll cope when you’re her age and have her experiences.

Those girls at the bus stop will continue to torture you; forget what they said about your bandana and your haircut. Let no one tell you your style is anything but exceptional; it’ll save you from vying with timely trends in the future. And in any manner, those bully bitches will develop into your longest best friends. Don’t try so hard to fit-in, you’ll only lose yourself. And when you find her again in, oh, maybe 11 years, you’ll question all the fads that you mimicked along with the crowd.

Appreciate the people that call you Cassandra. You don’t like it now, but when you grow up you’ll long for the respect of someone calling you by your beautiful, serious, full-name.

You’re smart, Cassandra. Oh sorry, Cassie. You’ll go on for several years thinking you’re the smartest 7, 11, 14-year-old you know. Hell, you might be, kid. Then at point, you’ll be one of the smartest people you know. But wayyy later, you’ll figure out that you’re no different from everyone else, and that you’re good at some things, but not excellent at anything. You’re not special, like they told you all throughout school. And that trait, humility, understanding, will save you years of worry or regret or disappointment. Just remember, you’re going to make a lot of promises that you think you’ll keep forever, but you’re going to go back on your word from time to time, and that’s good, because that means you’re gaining perspective. Never stop looking at things from someone else’s point of view. 

You’re going to lose a lot. You’re going to be disappointed and hurt, and scared, and very lonely. It’s not going to be easy for you. You’re going to lose a lot of friends, and that’s okay. Treasure them while you have them; they’ll each teach you so much more about yourself than you could learn on your own. Forgive them when they leave on their own accord. Forgive yourself when you leave them behind. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When you don’t make cheerleading in 6th grade; when the kids you thought were friends call you a "whale;" when you get your first “C” in algebra; when your best friend completely ignores you out of the blue with no explanation; when you quit soccer for the musical, and mom says she misses watching you play; when you can’t go away to your first-choice university because dad makes "too much money;" you are innovative. You can cope. You are strong. You are enough for you, and me too.

And you’re going to make a fuck-ton of mistakes, (sorry, that’s not appropriate for a 7-year-old, is it? A lot will change in 16 years, hon,) but you’re not going to regret a single one. Because if you did, you wouldn’t grow up to be me, and even though we’re not the smartest, or the best at anything, or special, we are worth something. I’m not sure what we’re meant for, or who we should be, but you and me, kid? We’re gonna be valuable. Maybe I’ll tell us in another letter when we’re 35 and God only knows what’ll be happening. But I’ll tell ya what, I’ll never forget you. Because you made me, you’re why I’m me, and we’re not special or important or wise or smart, but we are all that we’ve got, and we’re gonna create substance of consequence, relevance, effect. We’re gonna be important and good and all that we can, and if anyone expects anything more or less, then we don’t need ‘em. We’ve got each other. 

Love,

You, in 16 years

Ripping off the Bandaid

I chatted with my neighbor, John, from my stoop as he scraped ice off of the apron of his driveway. He told me to be careful, drive safe, something I've recently picked up saying to friends myself, as that's what I think adults do; at least pretend to care about an acquaintance’s well-being. Something like awareness of others. I sat down on the metal strip in front of my door, the only haven for my ass free of snow, and directed my attention toward my iPhone.

"What's up, Jack?” I looked up to notice Steve, our little, loud fugazi neighbor across the street, greeting John from the end of his driveway. I guess he didn't see me sitting behind my bushes. I'd never known John to go by Jack.

After the usual formalities, ("how are ya?" yadda, yadda,) Steve delivered the foremost phrase I’ve ever heard him utter: "What's the use of bitchin', right?"

I’m pretty sure John/Jack and Steve don’t get along. 

I was finishing up my last stoge before I showered, but realized when my dad’s truck wasn’t in the driveway, that he wasn’t home after all, and I went back to my room to finish smoking my bowl in bed without replacing the blanket under the door crack that allowed the odor to dissipate into the hallway.

This was my escape on a Sunday afternoon, before going to a family dinner, where I had to man-up. Put your makeup on, smile, fake it. Pretend you want to be there. Pretend you love your family. Which you do, you truly do, just not very much at the moment. I tell myself this in the second person, listing my commands to buck-up and get over myself. 

How do I escape? I can’t this time, but there are ways that are lovely, and there are ways that are dark, almost "dirty” ways, and I don’t think I need to explain either to you, sir. Thank you, good day now.

See, when I feel good it's like a song that I never want to end, and it's chilling, because I start to be sad half-way through, because I know it's only going to end, and I'm sad when it's over, only deepening my task of getting out of the conduit, whose current drags me farther from my goals. This is my dark period, but I need these days, so that every new lovely thing that comes along will seem so much brighter. 

I'm torn between the persona I've created to fight my actual self; the dark, callous, snippy, uppity bitch at war with the sad, empathetic, lonely, over-emotional soul. I want to be honest with people, I want them to know I care, but it seems the more of my true, unprotected self I bare, that I allow people to see, the less people want to see of me.

So I put down the bowl, and get in the shower. I put on my makeup, (thank god—my eyeshadow ended up a conversation piece at dinner,) and I got myself a coffee, and I made it to the table, and it wasn’t the afternoon that dreams were made of, but I didn’t want to die every second I was there. It was okay, and I’m okay, and maybe when this song ends, I’ll put on another great tune, hell, a whole playlist of them. I look forward to it. And I’ll return to hiding behind my dark hair and fierce mocking humor, because hey, Jack, what’s the use of bitchin’, right? But really, all in all, take care, please drive safe, I mean it.

Just a Tuesday

“Oh no, you didn’t get… like… raped, did you?”

I sat in the passenger seat and paused at his question; “no, no, not that… I just didn’t really want to do it, like...” and sighed, like I always did when I had to tell anyone this detail of my situation. 

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I’d only ever had sex once before that, so…”

“No way,” Mason responded typical of anyone I shared this news with, which I’d expected after what we’d done the night before, “but that’s okay,” as if I needed his validation. 

It was only about two months or so after it had happened, and I tried to keep my mind off of it—I used to credit the incident with ruining my life. Now I see, though, what it had really done; it allowed me to avoid the bullshit before it happened ever again. It began my ease in detaching sex from emotion. It allowed me to become like a boy. Mostly, though, it forced my fear of love.

I met Matt at Dana Carvey’s stand-up at my Alma Mater’s performing arts center. My boss at the school’s foundation gave me a ticket and told me she gave one to another of her 140 employees, a blonde boy named Matt, a “gerber baby” as some black girls called him, and I should meet him before the show; “here’s his number, you should have fun, he’s cuuuuuuute.”

We hit it off—he went to the same high school as my mother, so he was from the same area of Pennsylvania as I was. We even drove the same car, color and all. He was funny, and damn, my boss didn’t use the right adjective; he was hot. 

Matt was a year older, which I was into, until I realized that turning down his invitation to the bar after the show, (which I’m disappointed to report, I didn’t pay a lick of attention to nor appreciate, distracted by the hand draped over the arm rest to my right,) because I was only going on 20.

But a few days later, when he called to hang out, I jumped at it. He came by after the bar with a friend and hung out for a little. Another day, we decided to play racquet ball at the gym with his roommate, and went back to his apartment for a few beers after I was fed up embarrassing myself.

Matt’s roommate dropped me off on their way to the dining hall and I spent the rest of the evening doing a lot of nothing with my roommate, until Matt texted me. His texts I hardly recall, having tried to block his existence from my mind these past few years, but I have a feeling it went a little like this…

Matt: hey

Me: Heyyyy wassup?

Matt: u awake

Me: Obviously, what are you doing?

Matt: wunna hng out

Me: What do you wanna do?

Matt: comin over

Matt: mabe cassie

Me: Huh?

So this seems a little weird, but this was how he always talked—I never could really tell if he was serious about anything, or really, what the hell he was talking about most of the time. When he showed up, though, I was kind of surprised as he was usually flaky, and I was the reacher. He could do better than me, even then when my bod was at its best. Yet, I was thrilled, none the less, and we went upstairs, and that’s when things, you know, happened.

But my situation, you see, was kind of strange for a 19-year-old in college. I’d only had sex once, on senior week, black-out wasted. I’d probably only given about 3 hand jobs, and maybe made-out with 10 people ever. Inexperienced was a rather gracious term. Sex was very important to me, and I was actually very upset at the way I had lost my virginity, (which I feel I should mention was completely my own incitement of seduction.) At any rate, when Matt tried to infiltrate my sacred region, after not nearly enough foreplay for me to feel confident, I said, “No.”

He backed off, but we kept at our messing around, until again, his attempts at penetration were greeted with a, “seriously dude, I’m not that kind of girl, no.”

So shrinking back to the making-out and touching and taking off shirts and socks and blah blah blah, he lasted only a few more minutes before trying one last time to get it in, and my “no,” turned into a, “noooookay, fine, fine,” and we fucked. And it was amazing. And he was beautiful. And I was sure as I laid, his arm behind my head, that that was the best decision I could have ever made, and I stroked his blonde head and traced the lines in his chest, smiling, the warmest and happiest I’d ever been, ever would BE, on a Tuesday night in bed. 

The next morning, he woke up, walked 10-feet away to where his clothes landed, disoriented, got dressed and raised his hand in a weak wave, “bye, Cassie,” before he shirked off. Not even a kiss goodbye—I was about as confused as he looked, but still, I’ve mentioned this boy was a weird one, and I couldn’t read him. Especially when he didn’t text me for three days, until Friday rolled around and my best friends were having an "ugly sweater" party.

He said that we should talk, and I said, come to the party, and he showed up with his roommates until they ran out of beer, and I drove them back to Richard Street to pick it up. They piled out of the car as Matt in the front seat said, “I need to talk to you…”

“Yes?”

He looked me in the eyes, looked away, and turned back to say, “did we… did we have sex the other night?”

“Are you serious?"

He didn’t remember it happening, and I remembered it a lot less shitty then it actually was. It sucked— he couldn’t stay hard, I realized I had tasted alcohol. He was so drunk he didn’t even know it happened. We hardly talked, there was no connection. It was a waste; my first sober sex with a guy I actually liked, and I couldn’t even take anything from it. 

I told Mason all of this as my excuse to not have sex with him, because he was forceful and was known to push women into bathrooms, something I found out first-hand the next year at school.

“I WILL have sex with you,” he said, my back against the door, his hand creeping up my thigh, and when I said, “no, you won’t,” he kissed me so hard I thought my lips were bleeding. This, the same kid who asked me if I was raped. I avoided him at all costs after that, as I did Matt, and found that even though I’d detached emotion from sex, I still wanted to decide who I wanted to fuck when I wanted. I still wanted to like the person I was going to let inside me. I wanted someone to respect me as much as I respected myself.

I used to let this thing define me, and it sent me into a semester long depression that drove me to drop a class, eat back all the weight I’d lost, and scrounge together every last penny for pot just to cope. But now I know, this event, this has nothing to do with what I am; this was just an incident that let me see who I really am.

Inexorable Occasions

There are spells when I'm sitting for full hours, and time doesn't seem to move, or exist even, and I think I hear things and they're all just a dream, or I think I've dreamt things before, and really I've heard them. The scary thing is, you don't know what's real and what's delusion, consequently losing all touch with reality, and before you even know it, people seem to notice and ask, "what's on your mind?" And you can't say "oh, just busy questioning everything and nothing at the same time," so you describe an object in the room, like, "isn't that light fixture stunning?" It's all just blending together; different drunken nights spent at bars with "friends" that don't know you, going to the same eateries for lunch and ordering the same meal you ate last time...

So you close your eyes and it hurts so bad, physically you feel it, though you have no marks, no bruises. The pain is more than you can bare, but nothing comes out. You have nothing to show for it. And I laugh, and jot, "what a horrible time to be alive."

Everyone's voices float airily about you, and they're near, but they feel so distant. The bullshit and game fuckery that you see through, because your heart's beating too fast, and your eyes are watering too much, and no, you're not crying--you know the trick to this game. But they tell you you're wrong. Do you acknowledge something someone says with a comparison to your own life, or not acknowledge them at all? Time for a cigarette. 

I have surpassed the idea of black-and-white; the belief in impossible; the idea that everything can be so clear-cut, concrete. It's much more complicated than it all seems, even when I make it that way, it couldn't ever be as simple as everyone makes it out to be.

One Flew

The computer hums behind my chair on my desk in the office. In addition to the mild buzz of the fluorescent lights above me, and the steady click click click of the baseboard heat, and the radio making its way underneath the door in the shop, where no loud tools are being used, not at the moment; it's time to shut it down. I check the program one more time... No more updates to be made. Shut down. Less than an hour of work, that means. The computer hum fizzles out. 

Now the lights sound louder, the clock comes alive and I can hear it ticking, too. I tune into all of this, and tune out of my book, eyes still scanning the lines, but not reading the words.

People actually had to lick stamps, remember that? I was confused when my boss sent me to the post office earlier, where I avoided a former high school classmate, pretending I didn't notice anyone standing there, let alone recognize her. Boss said, "make sure...well, I guess they're all self-adhesive now." And now I remember, didn't I used to have to lick them? Or was that phased out, and grandmom just kept them for us with the stickers and markers in the little desk in the corner of her dining room?

On the way back from lunch run, I feel like i'm dying... I'm talking to myself and I feel like I'm dying. I actually say that out loud, and laugh at myself. I tell Taylor that I feel strangely peaceful, yet chaotic. Like maybe about to die, like this is how people feel before they kick the bucket or something. I had to text her that, that I'm in a fog. She doesn't have much response. I wouldn't either. 

Less than an hour left of work. I just want to go home and take off my bra. I'll read for the rest of my time here, if I can tune out the sound of the light and the heat and the time again. But something feels good about my heightened senses, and I sit, concentrating on the murmurs, until a coworker's cell phone's full volume ringer disrupts my reverie, and I pick up my book again.

My Soliloquy

"KEEP WRITING.  You have a gift and you need to use it.” 

She’s said it to me several times, and while it used to motivate me, now it aches. The inadequacies fuel my complacency, and I don’t wear my seatbelt anymore.

I’ll start something with you just to get out of my own head. It’s too fucking tight in there, I can’t breathe, the same damn thoughts, relentless. 

"I don't ever mean to upset you, though it seems I do when I'm trying to express these things (this is not meant to be an argument or point of contention, just an assertion of the inevitable,) but I think we're both far different than I thought. … Like I'm telling you all this now, for what? 'Cause now I don't vent to anyone else, not ever; oh loyal me, abstaining from every opportunity that will leave me feeling anything but guiltless.” 

Jesus Christ. Wrote it all down, every fucking thing, months ago. Those feelings never left.

And… we’re off! First 20 of 40 oz down, only half a bottle left to go. I already know how bad tomorrow's going to be, the tingles of tonight's intoxication wearing off, and total disregard of reality, a blur like every day for the last 3 months. Restock the printer paper, press "okay.” Take lunch orders. Delete Twitter. Re-download. 

Someone once said, "gag me with a spoon”—it’s stuck in my head every time I hear someone talk about love, or Snapchat, or what they’re doing this summer... Anything at this point. Still wanna jump off a cliff; not to hit the bottom, but to feel the sensation of falling, forever.

Random sentences bar my sentences, barred by senselessness. What? What makes sense about any of it? 

It’s Taylor Swift and Lorde, Hamlet and Yorick, but the only skull I'd like to clasp and address is my own. 

It’s Friday… If I don't go out, something's wrong, right? I'm sick, but it's all in my head.