February 22, 2014

February 22, 2014

“Oh, what’s the bloody point.” I’ve been keeping my journal up for the last 30 something years, and as I re-read passages I realized I haven’t really went forward as a human being.  Old age doesn’t really suit me, but neither did my youth or middle-age did anything for me.  One thing that has been consistent in my life is basically boiling down to a theory by Arthur Schopenhauer that our world, or I should say “my” world is driven by a continually dissatisfied will, continually seeking satisfaction.  My passion for Cyrinda never faltered, and when she left me for David, I thought for sure, my world, will be completely crushed.  Instead, I find my pain of losing her to another man as something of a turn-on for me.  I never felt more alive, when I am mourning for a lost love.  

Luis Buñuel’s film “L’Age d’Or pretty much described my romantic sensibilities.  At all cost of trying to get the girl, when the girl is not that interested in you anymore. Cyrinda went off with other men, very famous men, and I never failed to watch her from a great distance, or the gossip pages of various magazines.  The illness from my passion made me feel like Dwight Frye, when he is found on the ghost ship with Dracula’s casket.  I feel my obsession is chaining me to the memory of Cryinda, yet in reality, did even that love exist?

Some years ago, I became obsessed with the relationship between the female writer George Sands and Frédéric Chopin, which started out brilliantly but became a chore for Sands.  As Chopin got physically ill, he has been quoted as saying that his doctors have told him that "the first said I was dead; the second said I was dying; and the third said I was about to die.” I too felt illness creeping up on me for the past 30 years, and I wonder if tomorrow will exist for me, once I give up my daily obsession about a lost love, that in reality was not even close to love. 

One of the things that keep me going with respect to my journal is my major influence, Jules Renard, who kept his journals from 1887 to 1910.  In them, he kept his thoughts and observations on daily life, which for me, was uplifting and fascinating at the same time.  One quote from his journal stays in my mind, “Laziness is nothing more than the habit of resting before you get tired.” If only I take that advice literally, I would be a happy man.  But also his comment “If one were to build the house of happiness, the largest space would be the waiting room, ” is very truthful as well.  And it is perhaps my “love” for Cryinda is placed in that waiting room.

Nonetheless, in the end, I just don’t know.  Oh, what’s the bloody point.