Hope Springs Eternal

For some time now, I have been devoid of creativity and any inclination to read literature, creative non-fiction, or philosophical essays has been beyond me. Now that the winter blues are behind me, I am immersed in frenzied, ardent, and constant reading which is all a bit too reminiscent of my adolescence. It is difficult to pinpoint the source of my occasional nonchalance towards my great passion. However, my loss of appetite for the written word has always signified greater challenges than mere idleness.

Indeed, I stop reading and thinking critically and being creative when depression, restlessness, or uninspired daily routines envelop me. Sometimes I feel so out of touch with the arts and to a certain degree the community of souls that surrounds me because I am devoid of hope. In the past, mourning dissipated my usual joie de vivre and it was not until I stumbled upon (my now beloved) writer Thomas Moran and his The World I Made for Her one afternoon that I woke from my emotional slumber.

Nonetheless, the last few years have been marked by a resolute lack of creativity. Perhaps academia took precedence over my companions for my penchant for intellectual discourse and passionate debates have been at a standstill. Even writing on the web has been intermittent at best though I am gradually coming out of the shadows these days.

Tonight, I purchased Love Poems from the Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets series and my penchant for succinct yet delightful prose was quickly revived. In particular, She Who Is Always in My Thoughts by 5th century poet Bhartrhari:

She who is always in my thoughts prefers
Another man, and does not think of me.
Yet he seeks for another’s love, not hers;
And some poor girl is grieving for my sake.
Why then the devil take
Both her and him; and love; and her and me.

For all intents and purposes, writing poetry is not my forte. In my youth, I was more prone to writing poetry en français which caused quite a controversy in High School, but that is a story for another day. Instead, I have been known to devour lyrical poetry as a reader, albeit as quite an interactive reader, and enjoy delving in mostly non-fiction creative narrative.

Tonight, Spring is beckoning my pen with all her might.

Good Mac Hunting

On Wednesday, Louie would have celebrated his 38th birthday.

For some time now, I have been emotionally numb about him and his interweaving role in my psyche so long after his death which I thought was a synonym for the grieving process. In the pre-blogging world, my old personal homepage was a therapeutic tool and my feverish entries betrayed my desperate attempt to hold on to what was no more.

Tonight, I was rummaging through his box of (rainy) treasures and amidst letters, mix tapes, and other memorabilia, I came across one of my email messages which made me smile ever so sweetly. From Good Will Hunting, I am quoting an excerpt from a scene between Sean, the psychologist, and Will, the protagonist of the film. The scene is still powerful to me – Sean attempts to explore Will’s fear of commitment and lays his insecurities bare. Louie was always Will to me in such vivid, beautiful, and promising tones.

Will: Yeah, but this girl is like, you know, beautiful. She’s smart. She’s funny. She’s different from most of the girls I’ve been with.

Sean: So, call her up, Romeo.

Will: Why? So I can realize she’s not that smart, that she’s fuckin’ boring? Y’know — I mean . . . this girl is like fuckin’ perfect right now, I don’t wanna ruin that.

Sean: Maybe you’re perfect right now. Maybe you don’t wanna ruin that. I think that’s a super philosophy, Will, that way you can go through your entire life without ever having to really know anybody.

In retrospect, I have come to internalize Will’s inner demons in some way. I am perfect right now, if only I would realize that.