On television series.

It’s been a while since I last let myself be drawn into a television series. I never really developed the TV watching habit, probably due to never having had cable in my room. In fact, I believe I only had a TV in my room for a short period before it was reclaimed by my parents for their own room. Our internet connection wasn’t the fastest, either, and I never had the patience to either stream or download shows. Here in SG our television gets even less use. It’s too close to the office area, and the sound would be too distracting for the others at work. I don’t usually find much to watch even when I give it a chance and turn it on, some weekends. We don’t have Food Network available which would usually be a reliable channel-surfing choice, and I never seem to chance upon good movies or documentaries being shown, either. In any case, I really just wanted to talk about enjoying watching Gilmore Girls. There, with that statement I announce my gayness to the world. (Well, to the rest of the world that doesn’t already know it. Some people have most likely already suspected as much.) I can’t help it, Rory’s too cute, her mom’s such a little kid (though more than a little pleasing to look at, and man, isn’t that conjunction just unfortunate), and there’s something almost hypnotic about the fast talk peppered with pop culture references, half of which (okay, maybe more than half of which) just flies right over my head. The cheerful quirky small-town vibe is also undeniably attractive. So, I think, despite it on the surface being a mother-daughter drama series (he says defensively), there’s more to it, okay, and I’m not just being an effeminate stereotype. And, of course, just the usual perverse, voyeuristic, escapist pleasure of it all, of for a while inhabiting a world that’s infinitely more eventful and, ultimately, more perfect than the one filled with all of our mundane worries. On the flipside, when the episode or season or series ends, a terrible feeling of inadequacy almost always gets to me as I return to my own rather pedestrian, disappointing life. But I don’t want to end on such a depressing note. Fiction does have the capacity to uplift and inspire instead of simply proffering hollow, temporary escape. As with everything else, it’s all in how one chooses to look at it. Though unfortunately I seem to naturally tend towards melancholy, I believe I can grow out of that indulgence. There are many more episodes of the show and in my life remaining to be experienced. Eventually perhaps I’ll learn my lesson.

Escapism, or Unfortunately, I am not a figment of the imagination

You know what I want to do? Save up some money, make up a plausible excuse to be gone a couple of days. Then disappear alone. I don't know where I'd go, and it doesn't really matter too much. It just has to be somewhere I've never been before. And somewhere I wouldn't accidentally meet someone I knew. Somewhere to be alone.

This might just be more escapism, but I really feel that such an experience would help me get a better grip on myself. Yeah right, wishful thinking.

These past two weeks, I feel like I've let myself get into a real rut. Each day brought the same vague worrying about my lack of progress, and continued inaction. Each day I would refuse to face these feelings, choosing instead to immerse myself in Murakami's fiction, music, and the interactions of strangers and friends on the Internet.

All the while, of course, rationalizing to myself that this state of affairs would only be temporary. That there was really nothing I could do, that I deserved a break. That I needed to relax and just let the image of what I want to do form by itself. To an extent these are all true, as all rationalizations are.

But only to an extent; no matter how peaceful, a rut is a rut. Things like this can't go on forever. I need to feel that I myself am creating something, bringing something of worth into this world. Being someone of worth.

The difference between me and a protagonist in a Murakami novel? No supernatural forces are going to shake me out of my self-imposed stupor. No beautiful, mysterious, troubled woman is going to appear and turn my world around.

I'm going to have to change my reality by myself.