I yearn to lick the cold night of a Brooklyn skyline, taxi exhaust, 22 year old gum residue on cement walls, bathroom stalls telling the story of a million hands–scanning foreign eyes from faraway lands,
convening
at the
epicenter
of life.
It was the music and it was the images that drew us. We were in love with the look of it; the sound of it, packaged before us inside of 90 minutes. We said, “This is me; this is who I am, too”. We staked our claims in the characters, in the fashions, in the storylines. We chose it to define us. And in its definition of us, we thought we revolutionized the art of film. It was no longer just a narrative. It was a narrative about us. And the music was the soundtrack to the story of us. The world had never known this kind of narcissism. And we were drowning in it. And maybe we realized it, but we indulged it all the same. Because everyone else was the same. Because we were craving definition. And we were lacking structure. Because we didn’t have anything else but the threads and lines of stylized art burned into our heads to give us some semblance of profundity.
We were an amorphous blob of a culture, eroding parameters like storms erode coastlines remiss of boundaries set before us. We borrowed from here and took from there and used all that we could to create an unparalleled beauty that was ours. That had roots in so much history that those who did not understand couldn’t see. Because they labeled us substance-less. Because they labeled us disrespectful destroyers. Because they thought us ill-educated. Because they were incapable of perceiving our preservation through new fusion; they were blinded by the shock of what they thought was tarnished.
But in reflection
we all see the connection
and that
none of this is new
because all the narratives
and all the music
were always about
us;
they
set the boundaries;
they
define the lines
we weren’t sure were there
but
always were
and always will be.
Pulling into Buford Drive on Black Friday was an arduous task, despite the holiday cheer and crisp, wintry weather of northern Georgia. The queue to park extended itself a half mile all the way up the exit ramp of I-85. Even my father’s ability to park in a handicapped space was not salvation enough to find an empty spot. This element of ritual chaos was resolved by traffic officers directing the vehicle flow from full lots to empty ones. The establishment of order was a small conciliation upon the realization I, the frustrated consumer, would have to hike to reach the nearest entrance.
The ambiance within the halls of the shopping mall was subtle, but individual stores decorated their windows and shelves with holiday styles, trees, wreathes, garlands, and stringed lights in holiday colors of green, red, and white. The warmth of Christmas ambient lighting in stores was juxtaposed by the fluorescent lighting overhead, providing an uncomfortable shock of the visual senses that was primarily felt in the supraorbital ridge. The air was thick with tension from adults rushing to make purchases without losing their families and children anxious to see the Santa Claus display or make purchases of their own.
The element of the abolition of time was not experienced personally, though the lack of clocks around the mall would lead one to believe customers were not aware of the passing day. Shoppers would look at their time pieces or cell phones to find out the time, usually in the vicinity of the food court. The crowds of shoppers and their loud, shrieking children reminded me I did not want to be there. The lines at registers seemed to take forever to get moving—this was another reminder of time’s slow crawl. The only period where I experienced the abolition of time was in sporadically getting lost in observation and analysis of the chaotic events.
Particularly interesting was the ritual of crowding of an amorphous body of shoppers within stores, yet their forming lines before the registers of their own accord, presumably, from the enculturation of such religious exercises. Shoppers’ need to consume was fueled by the presence of their desired objects at markedly low sale prices, which were made known through secondary and tertiary myths found in television commercials and newspaper or magazine ads in the days and weeks leading up to the event. The voracious consumers were not always appeased, though. By the time I reached the mall, the early bird sales were over and the shelves were ransacked. The tables were strewn with disheveled items and the sales associates could not keep up with organization. Their jobs were to focus on processing sales on registers. Occasionally, a salesperson would be found on the floor and asked if the store possibly had an item in stock ‘in the back’. The reply would always be: “Everything we have is on the floor. A new shipment should be in next week.”
The Black Friday experience is not exactly one of joy, even for children who are forced to sit atop a strange, portly, white-whiskered man’s lap. Smiling parents attempting to have their children photographed would often be met with disgruntled faces that soon contorted to screaming, crying, tomato-red heads. This painful ritual was hard to watch, recalling my own experience at the tender age of three when I was forced to sit on Santa’s lap. Their sodden faces resurfaced memories of guttural sobbing and struggling to free myself from the awkward grasp of a strange man who did not feel like Santa Claus to me, though his trickery apparently had all the adults deceived. The resulting feeling is only comparable to swallowing a dense, leaden ball and having the digestive fluids helpless against processing it.
Despite the agonizing experience of crowding within and outside the Mall of Georgia, I did not find myself wanting to inflict physical harm on shoppers or salespersons. Why do we take part in this near-hellish event? An extra ten to fifty percent off items does not seem worth an aneurism or the extra fat deposits left around the midsection due to stress. Perhaps it is like going to the dentist, painful yet good for us. Perhaps we are innately masochistic. Maybe it is easier knowing there are many others around the country going through the same ritual we are, bonding us in religious camaraderie. Perhaps it is that camaraderie found in such a ritual that has us come back for more.
Goodness, it’s been so long this box no longer even feels like home. How could I have forsaken you!
I’ve been so focused in my studies I haven’t taken the time to reflect upon what I’ve learned. I get so tired, mentally, I just want to waste my free time away on things that don’t involve much critical thinking.
I’ve been fairly isolated. I ventured out with a couple old friends a few weeks back and partook in activities I had not done in at least a year. It was very strange. I did a lot of talking and thinking as I always did, but I felt uncomfortable. I had trouble engaging my peers and I preferred writing my ideas out in general concepts. When I read what I’d written, it was pretty much a review of topics covered in my classes.
What I tapped into during this altered experience just reified how focused I am within academia. Sometimes it seems like I’m one of those “all or nothing” people. The more I know myself, the less it seems that I am a multitasker. Yes, I can do different things within the same period of time, but when it comes to doing something absolutely excellently, I can only focus on one thing. So far. My next goal will be to learn to balance all important aspects of my life. Right now I am just so desperate to complete my BA I can barely think of anything else.
I just had a vision of life being densely packed with many opaque layers. I’m envisioning it as a sort of flower or fruit. In this momentary vision, I saw a layer removed. Age does this. Experience does this. In reflection it seems as though my person, my essence, my soul (however you wish to classify it) is born as some thick, densely packed object. My goal is to reach the center. That center, to me, is Enlightenment. But there are so many layers to get through and they are all opaque. I have no idea what’s in the center (Tootsie Roll pop jokes will be checked at the door, please) and I don’t know how long it will take to get there. But I know there is an imperative for me to get there. I don’t know if the imperative is natural/instinctual or learned and it doesn’t seem to matter. I need to get there.
The path to get there is curious. I think I am over the attempt to arrive there religiously. As in through an established world/organized religion. Right now I’d say I’ve got most of my eggs in the Academic basket, but part of me knows it’s not that simple. I think I will spend the rest of my life stumbling along, slowly uncovering layers until that final glorious day. I have this feeling that I may only uncover that final stratum on the day I die, because no human could continue living life as we know it once the truth has been unmasked.
I often wonder if all my contemplation is alienating me or bringing me closer to the human community. When I am in social situations, which has become rare these days, I feel as though I am a spectator. Have I already become the anthropologist, the ethnographer? Being an insider has become difficult. I feel awkward as a participator at times. I’m not there right now, mentally.
I feel like a balloon that’s lost its anchor to the earth and is slowly ascending toward infinity. I wonder when I shall lose grasp of my corporeal vessel. (I hope it’s not soon.)
Occasionally, I think humans are predictable disappointments. But I want to focus on what I don’t know about us. I’m really sick of the world the media glorifies. And it’s no surprise I am so disappointed in humanity if what I see on popular tv/film/etc is a reflection of society or of its ideals. I think that’s why I’m so drawn to Anthropology. I have a desire to learn about cultures that aren’t my own and through the study of other cultures, I hope to understand my own better. But it doesn’t just stop at culture. I want to know why we are the way we are. It’s a pretty lofty ideal. Maybe I’ll never achieve it, but I think I’ll have some fun traveling on that road.
Jenka Potente's meandering mind. 