Retrospection

I've been doing a lot of comparative analysis lately, and not the kind with clear answers. Me vs. the pictures of me.

There are reasons we say, "I don't know what I was thinking."

We immediately start forgetting things that we regret. And every so often you get catalyzed to remember them, and wonder...

[The Modern Life imposes an exponential decay of optimism. It's one of those facts of life that our various elders will always call to light. I feel that way about myself; I know it about those as inexperienced as me.]

How many more times will I cross my own lines? And surprise myself with stupidity?

Then, you realize, that even though you're doing fine with this life, the whole thing is a bit of a concession to the past you, isn't it.

I'm in a perfect confluence of seeing myself depicted and remembered in my incredi-youth - wherein I never accepted anybody's constraints & optimism was open throttle redline - and digging up of sour memories.

After a series of ups, downs, successes and regrets - it's a whole new ball game. You've "grown up" and accept things you wouldn't have. If you hadn't those regrets, would it be different? Is it possible even to reach your current ambitions, or will they become delusions too?

That's what I'm thinking, when I find the following dialogue in my my old sent email box...

No summary, but an attachment email with a .doc "Happenstance"

Rather profound isn’t it?

..What?

All that space… and at the same time, just that space between you and a perfect let-down destiny; A compromise between life and death, a secession of will and a quick fall into the calm arms of quiet. Or perhaps - you’d be whisked off into some new existence and forget forever where you find yourself standing now… summing up what it is for you to go on; measuring out your prospects in the most fatal terms…

…How can you know all of this? I’m just standing here…

Oh, well I don’t really… Or didn’t. That’s just where I find my mind whenever I take this spot in. I - I live just over the trees there, and this spot never ceases to bring me to my philosophical knees.

Well I’ve stacked it all up, stranger. And regardless of you and your profundity I see none myself –

Really, though?

Yes, really. I don’t really app-

Then why bother with the thought at all?

That’s just it, that lack of the profound is what paints this all pointless. This Chaos – This Confusion. With no grand order and no innermost meaning…. What, really, is the point?

You don’t see at all.

I’m afraid I do.

No - pointlessness is freedom, and you’ve missed that point. Without the restrictions of destiny or higher meaning, you’re free. Once I found everything pointless. I stood just where you stand, with those very same thoughts. I come back and contemplate it all over again from time to time. But I always come comfortably back to this one conclusion: A meaningless life is a free one. Without destiny to live up to, I am carefree and fearless. Death is no foe to me, it is friend, eventuality. I may bask in a simple being without the guilt racked on by holding this soul up to any sort of standard. Pointlessness…. Let’s me go where I please, let’s me do it carefree.

Are you drunk?

Sorry, I forget to reign in my thoughts before I let ‘em go sometimes.

Apparently… but you make sense, in a foggy sort of way.

At first, I took this to be a dialogue between a past and a future. And it felt so eerily good to read this. I really don't think there's a use in hashing out what I felt here - I think if you're going to understand it you do already. And that's what I wanted to share.

I am utterly shocked at the clarity with which something i wrote four years ago speaks to me at such a different perspective. "I live just over the trees there" and " i don't know this about you, or i didn't anyway" speak to the metaphor deeply. These are things I really needed to reaffirm in myself, and now with hindsight seem to speak lessons I had certainly not even learned yet.

but that's not what it was

i think that the opening line is addressing character b's standing on a ledge in apparent distraught contemplating throwing herself off, OR a reference from stranger to stranger to a homeless man.

I'm not really a writer of fiction, but I like to talk about it, to paint it with broad strokes like poems on life. I had an under-motivated and over-talented friend who just would not stop procrastinating on the execution of his great ideas. He had HUNDREDS of outlines, and one script. So we came up with.... dun da la da dun dun.... crazy psycho erotic dry arthouse serial murder warfare!

basically his schtick was to force them into breaking their own principles, to allow themselves to logic their way into murder. sort of like saw. but not at all. i just KNEW you were going to think it, so i said it. but it's so not, man. I honestly don't remember all the details I will try and sort them out but I do know there was an awesome deception drugging scene where she seduces him and shoves a needle in his neck in the throes of ecstasy. we'll get to that. that's when the tables turn.

So he forces them into these cold logical decisions, and rationalizes it right along side of them, and validates his own justifications for murder by convincing women of them, and they kill with him, and eventually he woos them into submitting themselves entirely.

She is demonstrably intelligent, and he considers her his best student. They fall in love. But ah, it was design. the Kitchen scene: Nylon, skin, urgency, soft - BAM

Jennifer is a huntress of sadistic men, worldwide, turns out. She was born of them, raised by them, and devoted her life and considerable manipulative skills to hunting and killing poor specimens of men. Kind hot. So yeah, a battle for mental submission.

He thought he could pull it off low budget but wasn't writin SHIT so I trrried.

Ah, So anyway, by the by my happenstance hallelu- ms…

Wilson… Jennifer.

I’ve always loved that name, it’s so undeniably classic. Anyway I was just about to take some breakfast and start the day on a new page. A bold page… apparently, as I’m finding myself forward enough to ask you for your company…

Are - you inviting me out to breakfast? Mr….

WELL I don’t usually go trodding off with strangers, but what the hell, glad you asked. [I’d love to dine on your company this morning.]

Ha… [ p a u s e ]

Sauntering

J: So… [chuckle] I suppose you like those martinis shaken.

Well I have been lent to overseas intrigue and classy combat cocktail parties, I’m a james by another name: Nicholas… Foreman Vess, The Third.

How very proper sir. How then, go we to our breakfast, Nigel and the Rolls or Jeeves and the Bentley?

Not so lucky, girl. The propriety ends at the Third. No – Life is our chauffer and perspective is our coach. Let’s go legs and fresh air. There’s a café just up a ways.

Classic, indeed.

Well – just so I know precisely what I’m getting myself into here, Nicholas – Who are you, exactly?

You sound scared.

Why be scared in this ever-so-pointless existence, that would be a concession.

You’re catching on, good. I’m a man of many lives, past is unimportant, is it not? Currently I’m paying my bills with some freelance writing bullshit - various mags and rags and hags as needed. But as I told em on that dusty winnemunica road, son, I’ve traveled every road in this here land. Yeah…. I’ve been everywhere, man….

I get it. What do you write about?

Life, intensity, experience, perpetuity. Whatsoever catches my fancy. I find myself constantly writing allllll my anecdotes out in guises of profundity… Seems I’m always searching for what I find myself always denying.

Sounds ah… romantic.

Bleeding heart, through and through. And who, exactly, are you, innocent Jennifer?

I’d be careful how you use that word, Nick. Although innocent enough – college student by day, seeker by night. I’m only 23, you know.

I’m 28 myself.

Would’ve guessed older.

They always do.