Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Chapter 19: Moving on...

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There are many constants in life; one of which is my tendency to move every couple of years. I suppose it started as a child of parents who seemed restless, often changing jobs and addresses with equal frequency. So as an adult, perhaps I feel inclined to carry on the family tradition--I don't know.  Of course, by that logic, I would also be entangling myself with unsavory men, having children out of wedlock, and living outside of my means. Oh crap...damn heritage!


It occurs to me that I've made more cross-country moves, for no apparent reason, than most people. Perhaps it's always been somewhat of a romantic notion; it begins with the notion of an endless, open road, peppered by towns filled with suspicious and singular people; rolling sleep-deprived into a tiny, greasy diner at 2 a.m., bathed in the jaundiced glow of ultraviolet lights and stale cigarette smoke, while easing into a weathered booth among a sea of plaid and polyester shapes slumped over their coffee and homemade pie; the surprising, yet altogether pleasant and witty conversations with locals and fellow travelers, leading to sudden and short-lived arcane glimpses into the universe. In those moments, the world seems full of possibilities again; I feel a renewed sense of optimism and hope for a different life. But upon reflection, I can't think of anything more likely to ultimately cause despondency. 

The older I get, the more I appreciate that these tiny moments are disconnected from the realities of life. Daily life isn't filled with sugary, fix-it-all remedies (now matter what Oprah says); it's filled with lingering pain and disappointment; regret and memory revision deceive our over-active brains, but the ineffectual nature of memory retention (at its best) allows us to keep functioning under the pretense that things will be better--that something unusual and wonderful is just around the corner, or (at its worst) traps the brain into cycling over the same loop of despair and frustration on hyper-repeat. These behaviors and emotions make a person do some crazy shit--sometimes the resultant behavior is so subtle, it isn't a conscious choice. And I realize that sounds more than a bit morose, and I confess that I'm not a hundred percent cynical, but I think I'm finally embracing the notion of Predeterminism. And because of this, I know that my gypsy days are over.

Predeterminism is defined as, " The idea that every event is caused, not simply by the immediately prior events, but by a causal chain of events that goes back well before recent events." Now just to be clear, I'm not referring to the creepy theological notion of Predestination. Instead, I relate Predeterminism to one of my favorite science historians, James Burke, when he said, "Why should we look to the past in order to prepare for the future? Because there is nowhere else to look." And before I continue, I already know that this line of reasoning isn't revolutionary, but it is an idea that I had never embraced before. 

Is it possible that my body of hapless recessive genes is actually capable of creating a map of actions and deeds that continually conspire against me to create an inescapable path? Has the information from previous generations and environmental/psychological influence manifested itself into a tiny (and impeccably dressed) army capable of influencing my brain? That in the end, all of the deviation from convention, rampant hedonism, compulsive change, and repression effect very little change after all? Instead, am I on a collision course for perdition; trapped between the self I hope to realize, and the self I am predetermined to realize?  This conjures feelings akin to what the Russian workers felt during Perestroika: Absolute complacency.

And it is with this cheerful disposition that I begin my new life in Los Angeles. And it's probably fitting, given that this city is, in my opinion, the very definition of artifice.  So now that I don't have to be the captain of my own dysfunctional ship, which is strangely comforting in a way, I'm free to go out there and enjoy my new home, because let's be honest; the only real biological imperative that perpetually compels me is the need to be amused. 

So please pardon this stream of consciousness. In other news, popovers are the world's most perfect food.

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