Is this crazy popularity of young adult books new? I swear I don’t remember there being such a craze ten or fifteen years ago. Harry Potter is the closest thing I can think of and I always saw that as a children’s book (I read the first one in 4th or 5th grade). I can’t think of any other books I read around that time that I still like or would consider rereading today.
It’s the only young adult-like book I can remember from over ten years ago. Maybe I was painfully out of the loop and there are plenty more massive young adult books from that period that rival the popularity of Divergent and Hunger Games and the vampire one that’s called something along the TWILIGHT!
The weirdest part of this craze isn’t the popularity, but the popularity with older people (20 and above). I certainly don’t remember 20-something’s reading about teenagers in love during weird post-apocalyptic worlds.
1. Were young adult books always so popular?
2. Were young adult books always popular with people over the age of, say, 20?
I haven’t read any of those books, and therefore won’t comment on the quality. Even still, I do find it strange that the books teenagers are obsessed with are the same ones 20-somethings (and above) are obsessed with. Surely, there is something about those books that excites teenagers specifically. Surely, that something is rather simplified or amplified to appeal to teenage sensibilities. I don’t think it’s impossible for a young adult book to be good. But I have to imagine it’s as rare as a genuinely good children’s movie. There’s a reason Pixar is held in such high esteem.
And I’m not knocking you if you enjoy an occasional young adult book. I fully accept the possibility that I’m missing something, or simply have different tastes. If all you read is young adult books, then I find that a little strange, but only because, young adult or otherwise, having such specific and limited interest is putting an unnecessary cap on the world.
Anyway, just some questions I had in stumbling around the Internet, reading blogs, and seeing the Divergent trailers.
Literally, give me a task. Obviously it has to be relatively simple, but if it’s doable, I’ll do it. Send me a message with instructions of what to do, watch, listen to, or whatever, and I’ll do it. It can be meaningful or it can be stupid, your call.
examples:
“I love this band and this album, go download it and listen to the whole thing and write a short review of each song as you listen and post it and/or send it to me.”
“My favorite movie is Jack and Jill, featuring the always hilarious Adam Sandler. Watch this movie without willing all your senses to immediately and permanently shut down.”
“Here is a link to my favorite painter. Go to her page and pick out your favorite work and tell me why you like it.”
“So and so has brilliant ideas and his/her explanations are so lucid and enlightening, it changed my way of thinking. Listen to or read this.”
etc.
Basically, what is something you love? We all have those things that made huge impacts on our lives. Those things we always want to share with the world. “If everyone knew about this, the world would be a better place” type stuff.
I always wish people were more forthcoming with the things that really matter. But I think fear of being shot down or, more so, fear of being ignored stops us (i.e. me) from sharing openly.
How often does another person give you the time to share something meaningful? How often do you show someone a song you love and the person can’t pay attention for the 3 minutes? It happens to me all the time and it’s disheartening.
So, I’m offering myself out. Throw the shit you love at me and I’ll truly dive into it and give it the time it deserves.
inspired by: I have a break from school right now and am interested in finding new things to get into. I only have a few books left on the shelf then I’ll be looking for more. But it doesn’t have to be a book. In this moment, I have the time to explore stuff outside of what I’ve been learning in college for the past few years.
I’m having a bit of trouble sleeping tonight. It’s been a long few weeks. Somehow it rained tonight. I say somehow because it was a warm day. The pavement outside is wet and calm. Standing pools of water and the lack of people. No ripples. No splashing. A lack of activity. Just an infrequent car, or train passing. I find it comforting to feel alone sometimes. My campus during the summer when the numbers drop dramatically is one of my favorite places.
When I was younger and a fair amount more romantic, or stupid, or both, I would walk around my neighborhood at 2 or 4 in the morning while I talked on the phone with a female friend of mine. I walked down the middle of the road, stopping to sit down on the curb or in the middle of the street, to talk about something unendingly dramatic, and unnecessarily so. It was always so wonderfully quiet, save for me blabbering on.
There’s part of me that misses that version of myself. The one who would read poetry and song lyrics (not to mention writing my own that are infinitely worse and embarrassing to think about) to my girlfriends. The early model of myself that wanted to leave everything behind and run away with a girl I thought (and believe to this day) I loved more than I would consider healthy. The reality is, I had nothing at that time. I wasn’t leaving anything behind. There was no risk. It was solely poetic or cinematic or theatrical or whatever-ical. It was a show because I was unable to think of any other way to demonstrate how much I liked her. More than any other asshole at school was capable of. I could make those statements of love because, really, what the fuck else was I doing? Rock shows and falling in love. What, was I supposed to be awake during high school English? I’m sure I didn’t miss all that much, and I bet I now write and read as much as the valedictorian does.
I’m not sure what I started talking about. Something about sleeping. Something about love. Something about the past. Something about how much I hide from the present and future. Something about the fear of reality. Something about nothing.
Little thoughts and stories and memories to erase the doubts. Erase the sobering statistics. The tiny, paltry, negligible (rule of three’s) possibility that I will do something I deem worthwhile in my life.
To watch dreams fall. To witness the death of hope. To acknowledge reality. I’ll repeat the same sentence a hundred different ways. It all comes back to the truth. I, like so many others, hope and dream and wish and want and need and strive and aspire and demand (rule of 3 x 2.66666666666) greatness in our own little ways. And I, like so many others, will never reach it.
note: this is sort of about sex, as the title would indicate, so I thought I’d warn the people that don’t like reading about that sort of thing.
Something about winter makes me feel like having sex, which is at odds with what I want. I’m not too interested at the moment. I’m not against it, just focused on other things. Such are the pains of having a body, right? It’s just so damn annoying. Why can’t our bodies realize we’ve moved past that moment in time? We don’t need mates anymore, stop trying to tell me I do. We trick you all the time, body. You think it’s warm, but it’s a jacket. You think it’s day, but it’s a lamp. You think we’re involved in an adventure, but it’s a book. And you think I’m reproducing… oh you have no idea what’s going on. If only you could see all the ways things have changed since you were last relevant. That savanna is long gone. We’re on two legs (and it’s killing our backs and our sinuses… you win that round). And most worrying for you, we are aware of how you try to influence us (well some of us are).
And so I feel like I want sex. You still have a powerful hold, no matter how much I rebel. But try to catch up please. Things are different now. We have the internet. We have science. We have a million things to occupy every second of our lives. Those basics aren’t such a big deal anymore. You care so much about sugar and reproducing. Sugar is everywhere to the point where everyone has diabetes, and there are too many billions of people in this damn world. I know you don’t care about that stuff, but damn it, you should. I want to visualize the 4th dimension. Where are you on that? Flying wouldn’t be so bad! What about quantum mechanics? I’ve never been so disappointed in myself as when I realize how much I’m not capable of understanding. We’re not meant to understand the massive universe or the microscopic. Medium sized, medium speed animals. Not meant to understand complex mathematics and million year timescales. GROW UP! And stop bothering me about this sex nonsense. Yeah, it’s great. But I know it’s just you trying to trick me into having kids. Damn you! Damn… me!
Honestly, you know what I really want apart from what my body is telling me? I want those first few months. Even the first year. When everything is terrifying and awkward. And sex isn’t really an issue because making out is still unbelievable at that point. Not that relationships suck after all this passes, not at all. But there is always a point when you become comfortable… which isn’t bad. Anyway, I’m not arguing the pros and cons of long term relationships. I’m just longing for that high school feeling. It’s always the same, those first few months. That moment when the switch is flipped and all sort of possibilities appear. Love? A future? Magic? Unicorns? The obviousness of it all, yet somehow mysterious at the same time. Everyone is disgusted or annoyed by your slow progress, and you are too when it happens with other people. They tell you to get on with it already. And you say the same thing when your cynical, jealous side is witnessing it, and wishing it was you. It’s exciting and stupid. I’m not exciting often enough, even though I’m stupid constantly.
Well, at least things appear to be warming up. The cold is leaving, maybe this feeling will go with it.
I’m not grown up yet. I don’t pretend to know everything, but I do generally feel more in control than I did when I was 19 or 20… except when I look at pictures from when I was 19 or 20. I really missed something there. How can I regret something so much when the actual chances of it ever working were almost zero to begin with. Let’s be clear. I am over it. I wasn’t thinking about anyone until I decided to write about random music memories (a post I never completed). I thought it’d be fun to remind myself of small, relatively innocuous, moments from my life that I associate with a song or album or band. Turns out it just reminded me of a picture from 2005 of two friends and me sitting on a beach in Santa Cruz. I haven’t seen the picture for years, but I remember it vividly. So I went looking for said picture and just dug up tons of memories from when I was socially happier. It’s a weird dichotomy because overall I was very unhappy at the time, yet it was my most socially enjoyable period and I miss certain aspects of that (when I say socially active, it means I hung out with the same 4 or 5 people all the time). I could never find a balance though. I realized that even back in high school. If I could hang out with someone, I would, every single time. Which means I wouldn’t get anything else done. I think it goes back to wanting to live a Bukowski-esque life. Being a complete mess was the most romantic lifestyle. I had no hope or future back then, but I did have some amazing friends. Sometimes, I so badly want to go back.
But what is it about this specific time? It must be different in some way because there are other people I’ve fallen out with. They were very important to me too, but I don’t feel this pained when I think about them. I’m able to happily enjoy the memories of these people without attaching the miserable realization that we are no longer friends.
I always was rather proud of my ability to look back at people and not have any negative feelings toward them, even if we had a bad end. I can talk about old friends and be happy I had those people in my life even if something stupid happened later. I don’t hate or regret my past relationships, not even the girls that broke my heart, or did something I considered shitty at the time (which includes breaking my heart). So why is this bothering me?
Maybe it’s because I never “replaced” them. In my junior year of high school I lost all my friends, and moved to a new group of friends. It’s a long story that I’d rather not get into at the moment. Point being, I lost three very close friends, that were eventually replaced with five very close friends. A few years after graduating from high school, I lost four of those friends and replaced them with a desire to make myself as smart as possible. I know what you’re thinking. ‘It must not be working, he sounds like an idiot.’ True. I study science not writing. I’m trying though, no need to be rude. I now have two people I can confidently call friends. I have about three people I can probably hang out with every once in awhile but never really talk about anything meaningful with them.
I never actually thought about this possibility before but it sounds like a reasonable explanation.
Memories aren’t made as often. Everyone has stories they can call up in a conversation. “This one time…” All of my stories are getting old.
I guess I’ve gone to the other extreme. I ignored everything except my friends, and was terrified of the future. Now I have responsibilities and goals and no friends, and I’m often lonely. Although, I was lonely back then, too.
Like I said, I brought this stupid nostalgia on myself… damn, I wish I didn’t think about that picture. I’m an idiot.
And you know what, fuck you… well not you, but fuck… it, or whatever… I don’t want to be an adult. Goddamn it. I like this. I like being unhappy and confused and annoyed and everything else. I like it because I love people. I love life. This is a part of life. I’d rather feel discontent than be blind to what’s going on or place importance on stupid, worthless, meaningless bullshit. The world is full of throw away people, throw away ideas, and throw away goals. I’d rather struggle. I’m never gonna be lukewarm.
My mind is full of images of people I really, really loved and really, really, goddamn really, miss.
Well, there’s some mindless rambling for everyone. If you made it to this point, good work! I can only imagine how difficult it was to get through. I’ll leave you with a song that 14 year old me loved a lot. And it still makes me happy… or okay with being sad. Either way, it’s an improvement!
Not really sure how to post videos so here’s a link if it doesn’t work and you are actually interested
Every day seems the same to me I sit around and think about how alone I feel then I wind up rather enjoying loneliness because it’s the comfort of being sad- sometimes it feels so right and sometimes I’d like to be around no one for ten straight years but I know this feeling can’t bring me places and I know I’m losing lots of ground but to keep up means to get up
and why does it have to be the world keeps on changing while I just stay the same? I feel like being down doesn’t mean enough to anyone anymore and I guess the world has made emotion obsolete and I don’t think I feel the same ’cause after all who says what happy really means? Tonight I will redefine everything and tomorrow I will start in on my better days and to each their own definition of happiness but no one ever reaches it so I don’t think I’ll breathe that way but happiness is when there’s nowhere left to go
She was gorgeous. Or maybe she wasn’t, I honestly don’t know. I just remember loving every part of her body. Conventions get lost when you fall for someone. So there’s a chance you wouldn’t think she was gorgeous. Either way, I thought she was, and in my memory she is the most beautiful. And I craved her all the time.
I hadnt learned her name yet. We had only come in contact once. She was elusive in her popularity within our little group. I was a peripheral figure. Drifting in and out when I had enough will power to force myself to face how uncomfortable I was and hang around with everyone. I had two ways in. Two friends that would invite me over. The rest of the group hardly knew me. They were aware of my existence but didn’t acknowledge it much. I faded into the background and would pop out to throw a little sarcasm at a comment someone made. I got laughs and I was proud of that. But I was too inconsistent to make a name for myself. too inconsistent to fill a niche. That sounds better.
She was always there. And everyone was always around her. She talked and talked and laughed and fought and did whatever she felt. Her personality was foreign. I couldn’t grasp how she could do what she did and needed to figure it out. I had to get close to her and learn everything about her. I had to absorb her. She was just fun and who doesn’t want to be around fun?
Years later, I still wonder about her. I wonder what she does now. I wonder how she has changed over the years. I wonder if I would still love her. I’m convinced I would because I need to hold on to the possibility. Really, I just want to think about how nice it would have been with her. I don’t want to think about all those obvious issues we would have had if things worked out a little differently. She would have killed me.
She was great. I imagine I’ll miss her for a long time. It’s been five years already, not long in the scope of a lifetime, but it’s not really letting up at all yet.
Theres a lot of music that reminds me of her. I saw this band with her 7 years ago. (Band: The Good Life, album: Album of the Year)
I’d really like to change how depression is defined in the colloquial sense. The way it is now, basically any person having a shit day qualifies. Not to belittle anything a person feels. Take the sadness seriously. I only make the suggestion to improve understanding of what it means to be depressed. And while on the topic, splitting biological depression from more life experience based depression would be nice as well. (Maybe this is already done in psychology. If it is, all my friends who study psychology are terrible students or have terrible professors, or both).
I don’t talk to many people about how I feel. I’ve made the decision to hide part of myself when I’m depressed because I wouldn’t want to be around me if my behavior mirrored my mood. Nobody likes a downer, especially not the downer him/herself. On the rare occasion I do express my feelings, the response I get at least 90% of the time is, “Why are you depressed?”
I’m sure that’s a valid question to ask most people who admit to feeling depressed. I’ve heard plenty of people say things along the lines of, “I’m depressed because I’m not doing well in my classes.” or “Sometimes I get depressed because my mom treats me like she hates me.” It makes sense that those things would upset someone, but it’s a different case than someone who randomly dives face first into complete and utter nothingness for weeks or months at a time.
My depression isn’t rooted in some recent, or childhood, experience. It’s not the result of some trauma I’m hiding from everyone, including myself, that requires time to uncover and work through. It’s nothing. It’s everything. It’s chemicals in my head preventing me from categorizing any experience as good. I can smile and laugh, but always feel that emptiness lurking.
Then it disappears. Life can be good, bad, happy, sad, hard, or easy, but I’m not depressed anymore. It’s a completely different feeling. The disappointment felt when failing in some aspect of life is completely different than the inability to feel anything but disappointment.
I’ll be the first to acknowledge that this is motivated by 100% selfish reasons. It comes from the fact that whenever I’m comfortable enough to open myself to someone, I have to face a misunderstanding. Usually, this results in more time spent trying to convince the other person that how I feel isn’t because of anything, than time spent deepening our relationship. And because at the end, I don’t want to try to have that conversation ever again. I always suspect that some potential future is lost each time.
I’m reminded of a story. I can’t remember who it was, or where I heard it, but it’s one of the more relatable stories about depression I’ve heard. He was living with his girlfriend at the time and was in the middle of a depressive period. It was an especially difficult day, for no obvious reason, and he was on the verge of breaking down. He walked into his apartment and his girlfriend was vacuuming. Almost immediately, he lost his composure, sat at the dining room table and started crying. His girlfriend walked over to him, said nothing, patted him on the shoulder, then continued to vacuum. He sat crying at the table for another 15-20 minutes while she finished vacuuming the apartment.
He said he knew he wanted to marry her after that night. It makes sense to me, but I’m not sure how that reaction would play for others. I’ve told this story to friends of mine and most think the girlfriend was pretty heartless for how she reacted. I get that when you see someone you love crying you want to help/talk/comfort. What she understood was that in that moment there was nothing for her to do. For him, and others, it’s just what they have to go through and nothing you can do or say will help. The worst thing she could have done was sit down next to him and ask what was the matter. And it wouldn’t be her fault if she made that mistake.
I lost my train of thought. I guess I stayed somewhat on topic. My initial intention was to point out the obvious, yet sometimes overlooked, fact that there are different ways to be depressed. And it’s frustrating to always be forced to explain that the reason I’m struggling with taking my next breath is because my stupid brain has decided to abandon me.
In case you feel this was a huge waste of your time (I can sympathize), here’s a nice, funny, somewhat related, video.
I’ve been meaning to write more, but with finals today, Friday, and Saturday (and the lab report and lab practical last week), I’ve been too tired to focus on anything expect a book for more than a handful of minutes.
In two and a half hours I have a structural geology final. I’m not adequately prepared, and rather than try to cram a few more equations or definitions into my brain, I’m writing here. My actions seem absurd when I write them out.
Another example?
Yesterday, I considered buying a twenty dollar pencil. To be fair, I write a lot for school (and fun!), and keep pencils/pens for years and years. My current pencil is two years old. My previous pencil was, at least, five years old. Why I care about pencils so much is baffling. I have some eccentricities that I don’t talk about. And they aren’t actually important to my mental state. It’s not an obsessive compulsive thing. I have no stress when I stop using a pencil. I don’t really care… I don’t think. I mean, I like my pencil. I like how it feels. I liked my old one more, though and if I really wanted to have a pencil best friend, l I would buy an expensive one… sort of like how I almost did yesterday.
Next year, if all goes according to plan, I’ll be starting grad school. I guess I’d like to have that twenty dollar pencil to accompany me on my journey through the last of my formal education.
Or I’m looking for a way to ignore my current problems. Everything ultimately serves as a distraction.
I’m not sick and hiding from that reality, I love to read!
Crumbles Away 