Mood swings

[illusionofjoy]

"A decline" seems to be the best way to describe the time period from 9:15PM yesterday night to the current moment. Right now I sit in the Beechview branch of the Carnegie library, wedged in one of the corners of their poorly arranged computer section. Behind me sits an elderly gentleman who has done a reasonably good job of not elbowing me, despite being right handed and seated at a terminal placed against the wall directly to - and less than two feet from - my left. To my right sits a twenty-something woman whose annoying ring tone alerts me to the fact that she is too discourteous to turn her cellular phone off when she is in the library.

My phone, on the other hand, has been off since I got off the trolley at the stop right outside the library. In fact, my phone was off for most of last night into early this afternoon, as the battery was too low for it to even stay on to display the time. This would have been all right, had I not needed to go to work last night. Right now, more than I have in recently memory, I feel like a slave to other people's schedules. I hate this feeling.

I actually had a good weekend, which is going to make the drudgery of my weekdays that much worse. Still feeling anti-social, at least with large crowds, I decided to pass up Ceremony for the second week in a row. Instead this Saturday, I hung out with a couple of friends and watched 24 Hour Party People, which I had rented on DVD. My friends and I thoroughly enjoyed the film, one of them giving it is ultimate seal of approval through the phrase, "this is one worth owning." I couldn't agree more.

Sunday evening was the day that Sonic Youth played at the Point, downtown for the Arts Festival. I went there with my friends from South Hills, but ended up towards the front of the crowd with a different set of friends. The ones I had ridden downtown with seemed content to be towards the back, whereas I wanted the full experience of being right in the thick of the music.

I wasn't disappointed. Post-punk song after post-punk song sprang forth from the seasoned veterans on stage, bursting into showers of glorious feedback and art noise. I stood there, transfixed, letting it all wash over me. I was in the prescience of legends and I didn't even have to pay to get in. I closed my eyes at one point, just to listen to the sheer beauty of something that transcended mere rock n' roll. These people on stage were more than just musicians; they truly were artists, crafting something wonderful in their medium right before hundreds of people.

I really wanted to stay for every last song that was played, but corporate obligations forced me to do otherwise. I ended up having to leave right before the second encore because I had less than fifteen minutes to get to work. The building I work in just so happened to be located on the other side of downtown.

So, I negotiated my way through the throngs of people gathered for the festival and began running towards my destination. Up until the point I had left, I was in a state of utter bliss. As soon as I found myself traversing the streets towards my place of employment, my mood crashed.

Upon first entering the building, I was relieved that I had made it on time. Once I settled into my usual routine, I found my sad relief morphing into anger. I looked at my co-workers, a group of people who, through no initial fault of their own, were wired to top-40 radio and other things common and mundane. None of them could share in my elation at seeing Sonic Youth, nor did they really care. That didn't make me angry though.

What made me angry was that I was there to begin with. What made me angry was the reminder that I lived in a world where a passion for the unusual and a love for that which supersedes the mundane is rewarded with nothing. There I sat in my job, in an attempt to earn money so I could afford to transcend the banal, and what was I personally doing with these efforts? Was I actively converting the mundane to the exceptional? No, I wasn't.

I was angry with myself.

I was angry with myself for where my life has gone. I was angry because, I'll never be able to make enough money to easily transcend the greyness of this existence. I was angry with myself because I fucked up, and now the little that I do make is coveted by others (which I was reminded of in an email this morning) and since I had fucked up, I would never be able to get out of the hole I'd fallen into.

My student loans come due in the near future and I haven't even a diploma to show for this debt. I'm doing alright now with what I make, but once the loan companies start taking my money, any extra cash I had to try and preserve my sanity will be gone. I'll be nothing more than an automaton, working, eating, paying the big companies for my big fuck-up that was SUNY Potsdam. Right now life isn't all that unpleasant, but I can see things becoming very dim very quickly.

My mother's voice echoes in my head. "Be thankful for what you have - a place to live, food to eat and clothes to wear," the voice intones again and again. Tell me this though: what is the point of a place to live, food and clothing if a life is otherwise devoid of meaning? What is the point of a life lived as a gear in a machine? For a nation so bent on glorifying the concert of "individual liberties," I certainly see an overabundance of cogs, wheels and gears. Is the promise of individualism just a lie to keep all the parts of the machine blissfully satiated? Is this what I'm really looking at: Socialism with the thin façade of a Republic? Does freedom only extend to whom who choose to serve within your own prefabricated sphere?

It's enough to make one start alternately eyeballing their wrists and a straight-razor. Such actions are vapid though - as both escape and rebellion. A new part is not hard to find and installation is easy. It's only the lucky few who break free of the machine. Right now, I really can't see myself as being one of them.