ObLiVioN-FalLs

I was talking on the phone, just having a normal conversation, when the phone let out a 'beep beep' indicating it had received a text message.  This was nothing new as I had received the notification a hundred, maybe even a thousand times before but this time it sounded different.  I paused as I asked myself, "Is that what it sounds like when I receive a text message while talking on the phone?"  The 'beep beep' was so distinct, so unmistakable that it was as if I was hearing it for the first time. While the clarity of the tone sparked my curiosity, I let it pass and continued my conversation.  When I had finally finished talking, I flipped open my phone to read the message:

"Hi there :)So, I have to cancel tonight. My ex and I have been trying to work things out and we have and we are back together. I'm sorry."

I closed the phone and cried.

When you're drunk, the first thing you lose is your ability to hear.

She was three drinks in and decided to shift the conversation from the everyday trivial to more important issues.  "I think he will propose" she blurted out, unleashing a demon that weighed heavy on her heart.

Her confession came like clockwork.  During our last two drunken encounters she continued on in the same fashion - diving into relationship issues that hounded her psyche after the alcohol began to take hold.  During the first episode I was naïve enough to believe that there was a special bond that united us and allowed her to eagerly express her most intimate concerns, but after experiencing it twice I realized it was just one lonely stranger reaching out to another lonely stranger.

"What will you say?" I replied in neutral tone implying neither acceptance nor scorn.  I already knew the answer, but I asked the question anyways - for her sake. 

"Well..." she began in an uneasy tone.  "I think he has started --- [rings], ---- [may propose]" her words were violently cut apart by the combined chatter of our fellow bar patrons and a fifty-inch television that vomited up play-by-play baseball analysis.

"He ----- [immigration status] ------ [marry citizen or] --------.  ------ [Because it will] -------- [we have been good for a month] ------- [say I can do better].  -------- [Called my Dad, I had no one else] ----- [not enough money to bring his family from Mexico] ------ [doesn't accept me] ------"

I wanted to call her an idiot.  I wanted to tell her that we had relived this moment twice before - each with her outpouring leading to a breakup followed by a teary reunion the very next day.  I wanted her to know that I was finished believing her drunken ramblings and was calling her bluff - no matter how shitty her relationship was she wasn't about to walk away.  Her beautiful smile and slender frame did an excellent job of portraying the calm collected image of someone who had her life in order, but it was beginning to give way to a vulnerable, unconfident girl that wasn't about to trade a lackluster relationship for the promise of something better.

Perhaps it was \LM walking out that made me so cold, or it may have been the act of reliving the same conversation twice before only to watch her run back into his arms that made me apathetic to her plea.  As she finished, I stared back in a sense of disbelief coupled with perfect understanding.

"I don't want to tell you what to do, but marriage is a pretty big step.  It is very serious; it's not something to take lightly" I chimed in as I took the easy way out.  Twice before I told her to walk out on him, but the advice had fallen on deaf ears and as such I felt it best to casually punt the ball away and let her discover the truth for herself.

"I know!" she responded back, "my dad always says it should be one and done - don't go in thinking marriage won't be forever.  You have to truly believe in it."

The conversation briefly stopped as she turned towards her phone and picked it up.

"I have to call him and let him know I am with you.  It's better if I tell him we are here rather than him finding out, it just makes things...." her voice trailed off in the violent cacophony of bar patrons and sports announcers.

I returned to my beer and stopped listening.

[UNFiNiShED]

/Lm and I are no longer in a relationship.

A better, more honorable, man would have allowed the relationship to pass away peacefully with dignity in the dead of the night.  I, however, am not that better man.  I cried, bargained, and pleaded to keep the relationship alive long after it was pronounced dead.  The more she ignored my calls and texts, the more adamant I became about resurrecting something that was long deceased.  Undeterred by her silence, I continued to message her until a single text with the soul-shattering words of "I think it would be best if you stop texting and calling me" was returned.  Pleading with her not to 'cut me off like we were nothing', she, without missing the beat, responded back with 'well, I do think about all the times that you screwed me over'. 

Sitting in the torrent of it all, watching the tide of circumstance pull her farther and farther away I, once again,  became reacquainted with the cruel notion of "No" and the hopelessness of being unable to change an inevitable outcome.  Desperation, like many emotions, is a telling test of one's character - a test I undoubtedly failed.  Even after weeks of silence from her, I still send my customary "Good Morning" and "Good Night" messages to a number that has vowed never to respond.

In the light of her absence, I have now assumed the role of a forensic investigator, diligently working to compile the shattered pieces of an obscure and distant existence into something familiar and tangible.  The photographs and half-forgotten memories of our relationship have acquired a surreal tone of a mythical story that occurred far far away.  Memories of a trip through the park, nightly walks by the stadium, climbing over rocks to gaze upon a valley populated by trailer parks have all been bathed in the wash of nostalgia and now appear whiter than ever, so white that their mere mention leaves teardrops in my eye.  It is my job to match those images and memories with the here and now.

The end of the relationship has left me asking many questions, but the question, "Who is [ObLiVioN-FalLs]?" has become particularly poignant.   That question has become my own expression of frustration and despair.  My futile search for a new beginning ultimately harkens back to a search of the past, as it is impossible to determine where to go until you have realized where you have been.  This search has become rather elusive as photographs, videos and journal entries capture mere droplets of the vast sea of an existence once lived.  It's within the totality of this proverbial sea that I have both fear and hope; hope of answering the question "Who is [ObLiVioN-FalLs]?", fear of the possibility of having no answer.  The notion of falling into oblivion, which was what this journal was predicated on, has become more real than ever.

"I created an Excel spreadsheet that automates this process that used to take 30-40 minutes down to..." I stopped mid-sentence and broke down crying.  I was suddenly transported back into the body of a school child that eagerly ran home to tell his mother what he had done in school only to have her casually nod her head and look away.  I knew attempting to tell her what I had accomplished was in vain, but I had to tell her - I had to tell someone.  The foreboding white walls of the half-furnished apartment were all too evocative of despair and isolation.

"What's wrong?  Why are you crying?"  She inquired in a half-interested half-irate tone.

"Nothing, nothing is wrong"  I replied back, angry at myself for not being able to control it anymore.  How could I go about telling her that I was beginning to crack under the pressures of isolation and loneliness?  After a year and a half of spending 8-9 hours a day compiling data in an isolated corner of the building only to come home to four empty walls that weren't the slightest bit inquisitive as to what I accomplished at work I began to succumb to the pressure of panic and despair.  The steady stream of subtle pressure suddenly became a torrent that surrounded me from all sides and transported me to a distance shore, leaving me confused and bewildered without the slightest inclination of where or even who I was.  The course that one seemed to logical and sane was now lost in a sea of emotional turmoil.

"Hello?  Why won't you tell me what's wrong?" She spoke into the phone.

On paper it had all seemed so perfect - the area, the job, the financial compensation, but now I was watching it slowly slip through my hands.  The pressure largely stemmed from questions of being brought on from isolation - questions of who I was and what was I doing on this rock hurling through space repeatedly sailed through my mind.  Add in the thought of dying and you suddenly have a recipe well-suited for a pressure cooker - bake at 350 degrees then release. 

"Why don't you ever tell me what's wrong?"  She inquired.

Sometime the closest people to you are also the most distant from you.  After hours, months, and years of talking we never seemed to break through the trivialities of existence. Words regarding our daily lives and feelings always stopped short of descending into the wondering abyss of true emotions and thoughts.  I took a few deep breaths and attempted to gather my composure as the streams of tears continued to run down my cheeks.

"Exit Through the Gift Shop" is at the surface a movie about the new art form known as "street art."  The move follows a man by the name of Mr. Brainwashing in his pursuit of the most famous, and most elusive street artist alive - Banksy.  While the movie is centered on the mysterious artist Banksy, throughout much of the movie the pursuit and admiration of Banksy takes a backstage to the life and character of Mr. Brainwash.  It is through the lackluster depiction of Mister  Brainwash that the narrator gives us a unique and humbling insight into the impact of tragedy on one's life. 

Mister Brainwash pulls the audience into his existence through the recollection of a seemingly innocent day at elementary school that was forever shattered with the news of his mother's death.  He recalls how the tragedy of the news stuck with him with complete surprise and presented him with a fervent desire to record all aspects of his life so as to never again miss such an important event.  That ominous day marked a turning point in which important and unimportant events would forever be captured through the sea of recordings that encompassed Mister Brainwashing's life.  Daily events were never left unaccompanied without the glint of a camera lens and the narration of Mister Brainwashing.  So obsessive was his desire that complete rooms of his house were transformed into massive storage containers to house all of the film captured throughout the years.

While the movie did little to catch my attention, the story of Mister Brainwashing's attempt to hold onto the fleeting moments of life resonated volumes within my own life.   Pressed by a desire to retain memories I have convinced myself I will forget, I've armed myself with a 3.2MP camera and have begun taking daily images to record the moments of my life.  At the surface, most of the images would seem trivial or meaningless, but each image carries with it a piece of time and place that once was. A quick snapshot of a bar, a picture of an apartment, a blur of a building all resonate volumes as to events filled with emotion and thoughts.  It's difficult not to look at an image and be instantly transported back to the summer day at the park, or the winter spent seeking refuge from the cold amidst a vast collection of American skyscrapers.

I tell myself that the images will be there when my mind won’t; the images will play nostalgia for the time in which I can no longer remember.

Partly driven by desire to establish something and partly in my belief that anything in digital format should be shared - I've decided to upload all of these memories online, for others to browse, download, and of course ignore.  As my pursuit of education has begun to wane, and the words that were once so freely flowing have begun to dry up, I’ll let the daily images of my life speak the tale of existence.  The images will speak the words that I can't - with a small stipulation.  They won't recall the personal details that were too intrusive for the internet; instead, the collection will speak the life of an anonymous writer - attesting to the life that could be of almost anyone and anywhere.

Enjoy.
 

"Newswise — ITHACA, N.Y. — Although the average Facebook user has some 130 "friends," in reality, Americans have, on average, slightly more than two confidantes, down from three 25 years ago"
 
Not sure how it caught my attention but it did.  Upon glancing through the article I let out an apathetic "sigh", questioning why such a blatant fact would even make news.  Isn't losing personal connections something that comes with growing older?  Aren't personal connections something to be found in the teenage years and anonymous mask of instant messengers that have been long abandoned?
 
Within my own circle, I can confidently boast zero confidantes.  Awhile back, quite awhile back, I could boast a perhaps a half-dozen, but through the years they slowly drifted down one path while I another.  I'm not sure what is more tragic - the loss of the confidantes or the lack of caring that accompanies their loss.
 
The old [ObLiVioN-FalLs] would shun such a notion; the idea of losing those that were closest to you is a measure of losing all that you have.  The haunting quote, "The measure of a man is gauged by how many friends he has" always rang close to home.
 
The absurdity life is only surpassed by the absurdity of how it is taken for granted.  Sadly, none of this will last.  The people we meet are all given the same consideration as passing shadows.   Moments and people are collectively lumped together into sublimity and passed off as if there were hundreds, millions or even trillions of them to be had.  Though, tragically, in the end there is only a finite numbers of people and situations that we so briskly throw away. One day, late in life, we will come to the realization that we had thrown so much away.
 
But that was then and this was now.  The potential of making the most of every moment has been replaced with the casual ho-hum of daily drudgery.  The apathetic feeling of knowing the moment that is about the pass can never be reclaimed and yet consciously letting it go has become all too familiar.
 
I now view life as a bell-curve, when you begin to amass things, objects, and people only to lose them later on.  Al Pacino, elegantly summarized it when it stated, "You know, when you get old, in life, things get taken from you. I mean, that's... that's... that's a part of life. But, you only learn that when you start losin' stuff. You find out life's this game of inches, so is football." 
 
While perfect in its own sense, I should like to add a final line to his speech, "...but eventually you lose more than just stuff, you lose those you can confide in"

"I just find it so amazing that all three of us graduated from the same high school and moved to [Town]!  I mean, what are the chances?" I exclaimed in exuberance.  "Or maybe that's just what people do; maybe they simply graduate from our high school and move to this town!  It's nice enough; I don't see why they wouldn’t..." I continued on emphatically, completely overcome by the emotions of joy and excitement.

Her face lit up with allure as she briefly neglected her driving duties just long enough to give a quick glance accompanied with a sly smile.

"Now, [ObLiVioN], aren't you the one confusing dreams with reality?"

Sitting in the passenger seat, I hesitated for a moment as I gazed back into her beautiful smile. Puzzled and confused, I paused and let her continue.

“Ele got married and moved to New Orleans a few years ago.  And Elz is in a relationship back in [Hometown].  And as for me?”  Her eyes glazed over as she paused and thought for a moment, “I don’t know where I am, but I do know that I'm not in [Town].”

The two girls in the back seat of the minivan chirped in with casual remarks about their lives and what they were doing.  I sat frozen in the passenger – captivated by their every word.  Their voices were accompanied with all of the excitement and joy that was in mine a moment ago.  Ele began to speak of her wedding, food, and the weather of New Orleans.   Elz continued on in the same fashion, updating us on what she did this past week.

Smiling, the driver once again continued, "You moved to that [Town] by yourself, remember?  Without anyone - you're alone there.  We didn't move there – we already have our lives."

Her words were unapologetic stern against my failing illusions.  For a moment I had forgotten that I moved to the town alone and had been led to believe that we had all moved there together.

She continued, "I do commend you, it's certainly not easy moving away from everyone you know and starting anew.  How many people in the world could do that?  How many would actually start fresh and..."

I stopped listening as a sickness began to overcome me.  This was a dream, a dream that had been ruined by reality - I would soon awake and the figures surrounding me would be transported back to where they had originated - one to New Orleans, another to [Hometown] and a third to a place I don’t know.

As her words continued I could feel the car arriving ever close to its destination.  Soon we would arrive and it would be all over - the dream I was now in would end as quickly as it had begun.  I turned my head towards the other passengers and stared intently in the vain hope of capturing the images of the moment.  I desperately tried to cling to the image of us being together, in the same place, even if it was just for a moment.

And then I woke up.

"And I taught them the iambic pentameter. I did everything!" she spouted in a giddy fashion.

 "I-amic pentramiter?"  I replied in a befuddled tone.

 "Yea, where you pull out the scale and - oh wait - you studied math so you probably don't know about that."

After our conversation, I was left with a slight discontent at the thought of missing out on the iambic pentameter.  Years of transforming numbers, and equations, had left little room for the study and analysis of the subtle rhythms employed by Shakespeare or Donne - a name I haven’t heard until today.  While part of me ponders the utility of knowing such a rhythm, an old distant and forgotten part of me is faced with the vexing notion of being uneducated in the classical sense.  As a freshman in a liberal arts university, [-], I obtained the noble idea that I would die an educated man.  Whether my life had been deemed an ultimate success, or failure, was trivial so long as my tombstone, and those around me, collectively agreed that I had died an educated man.  I convinced myself that I would know the Harvard Classics, the writings of Plato and Descartes, behaviorism and psychoanalytical theory, and above all be well versed in rhetoric and debate.  Through my own diligence, I would be transformed into a lover of knowledge - one who appreciated the subtle harmonies of an 18th century classical music piece and could recite brilliant lines of poetry and literature whenever the situation arose.

However, in the end the general liberal arts courses that would lead to the coveted status of "educated man" were ultimately replaced by more the practical, and seemingly more employable, hard sciences - mathematics and statistics.  These courses didn't offer any brazen insights into the character of man, the scope of society, or the depths of literature but instead proclaimed theoretical absolutes that were distant and obscure from everyday life.  Instead of finding life through meaningful experiences, I would be taught life through theorems and computation.

While useful in the practical sense, this presented a false sense of education - or of achievement.  Studying selected chapters, and memorizing various theorem left me *appearing* knowledgeable before my peers.  A trap of admiration in which I allowed myself to fall prey.  The world of humanities and literature became the world of those that could not do mathematics, rather than the world of those that chose not to.

We are all defined by the choices we make and my choice to give up the dream of being an educated man traces back to a midnight chat room conversation where the participants and users have been erased into history.  Debating on whether to pursue mathematics, I asked the question to the anonymous participants in the room and received a poetic response from English major.  He stated, "I chose to study English and as a result I will die poor and unappreciated, but I wouldn't change it if I could."  While there is little doubt that mathematics has enabled me to avoid that situation, it has not left me educated.  Instead, that distant figure that once so desired to be an educated man is all-but-forgotten, a remnant of different time, place, and perhaps even person.

The elusiveness of fate has always amazed me.  As a whole, particular people, situations and circumstances are collectively uprooted from their daily labor and hurled together to create a perfect storm that, at the surface, seems too refined to be a product of mere circumstance.  To those involved, the event transcends the sound logic of pure circumstance into an elaborate tale in which the tragic hero succumbs to despair, death, or simply the giddy laugh of insensate gods.

While those involved can attest to the overwhelming power of Fate, it's all too easy for those apart from the feelings, intuitions and subtle unexplainable perspectives to attribute the event to anything more than mere chance.  How can inanimate circumstances and objects conspire to allure anyone to their doom?  Can Fate be objectively measured?  Furthermore, add in the scientific argument of probability and it becomes difficult to refute that the events could have happened any other way.  The cursed tempest is suddenly transformed into a collection of mere objects - each mixed in which two-part probability, and one-part chance.

Such is the dual nature of Fate - evident to those present, and disputed by those who are remote and disconnected.  At first, puzzled by this, I began to let it go at that point.  I left at the notion that there existed a seemingly unexplainable force that when reduced to its components left little doubt as to the true nature of the beast.  Though, I thought some about other complex events and artifacts that could easily reduced to individual parts.  Love?  Dreams?  Both can be attributed to neurons and chemicals exchanging through synapses in the brain, but that doesn't quite define them.   How about something as abstract as a standalone complex?  Or a ghost in the machine?  Once again, the meaning seems to be lost in the subtle breakdown of the individual parts that make the whole.  Can a war truly be recanted in terms of the people, places and events that composed it?

It's easy to lump circumstantial factors together and assign a menacing face, even a punishing personality.  It's even easier to recant every step that led you to that fateful decision - steps that were themselves years in the making to reduce to event to mere likelihoods. 

I find the dual nature of it all fascinating, how it is impossible not to feel that coincidental circumstance have come together by a grander force to conspire but at the same time it's illogical to support.  Yet, how can inanimate circumstances and objects conspire to allure anyone to their doom?  Such is the dual nature of fate - a fleeting image in the uproar of the moment.

And I would like to take a brief moment to retract a previous answer.

It was he who posed the question, "So how do you know you've met the one?  How can you look at a girl and say, 'That is the girl I'm going to spend the rest of my life with."

Foolishly, I fell right into the question and boasted that I didn't know too much about signs you've found ‘the one', but I did know what didn’t work in a relationship.  I, in my semi-drunken state, began to babble on about compartmentalizing your life.  "You can't simply have a girlfriend and expect her to fit into compartments three and four, but not five and six of your life.  If you do meet a woman, you have to make sure she fits into every facet of your existence or it simply won't work.  You can't say that she will occupy this part of your life, while your friends will occupy another, it doesn't work like that."

 While a valid answer, I'd like to rewind the clock and provide a better, more suitable answer:

 "Meet her mother."

 In all seriousness, I'm finding that more and more women are mere replicates of their mother in one way or another.  While it is said that eternity at last turns each man into himself, it is eternity that is turning each woman into her mother.  Her hopes, dreams, and expectation of a family life are a direct link to her upbringing and as her significant other it will be your duty to fulfill those desires in taking the role of her father to replay the relationship she witnessed as a child.  All the actions you do or do not do will be subconsciously played against those that her father did or did not do.   Her sense of morality, of decency, and of overall outlook will be that of her mother's.  In short, you're not dating her, or courting her, but you're dating a manifestation of her mother.  It is her mother that she will ultimately turn into and it is only in meeting the expectations that her mother houses that you will meet her expectations.