Wretched, or, shouting into the void

I will not watch Ashton Kutcher's Punk'd; I do not care for celebrity pranks. Instead, I will listen to some music and write a blog entry, for that is as creative as I get these days. I watch enough bad television; I need to be creative again, somehow.

I felt wretched today. I knew it would be a bad day about ten seconds after I woke - after that dreamy moment of innocent peace you get before you remember who and where you are. I had a bad night's sleep, affected by awful dreams that centered, I believe, around nightmares involving the hideous species of fruit fly that I cannot eradicate from my apartment. I swear, Charles Darwin could have saved himself five years on the Beagle just by spending a few weeks in my apartment, watching as these things evolve immunity to different brands of fly-spray. I can't get rid of them, nor can I find where they are breeding. I know flies have a larval stage, and if I could discover where that is, I'm sure I could defeat them.

But then, I wanted to cruise around South America like Darwin. That was one of my ideas when I thought the shop was closing down. Instead, I'm stuck here, thanks to the self-destructive idiocy of my landlord, who is about as good at brinkmanship as Saddam Hussein.

Early in the day I went out to the storage unit. It's peaceful out there. I like loading docks and warehouses. I closed the rollerdoor of my storage unit behind me and sat and went through boxes of books, sorting them. Then I tried to take some boxes to the car, and pulled a very heavy trolley into my achilles tendon by taking too large a stride; I caught it on the back-step. It hurt like a bastard; I wanted to squeal and hop around and moan in pain, but there were all these manly loading-dock-type guys around me, so I just unloaded the books and sat in my car, whimpering quietly.

My twenties, also, are ending with a quiet whimper. Turning thirty in less than a month now. And I'm utterly dissatisfied with my life. I told some people a couple of days ago that it felt like I had become just a small cog in the capitalist/consumer system. I don't create; and I can't see that I make any significant impact on anybody's life on a daily basis anymore. I live alone with the fruit-flies. And these are the things that make me feel significant - the exchange of meaningful communication with other people; being creative. Instead I work, doing the same things I did last year, week after week. It's taxing, but not difficult. And, although I don't make money, it does pass through me; it comes in and goes out like the tide. Keeping the money circulating is what we wretched cogs in the capitalist system do. The military-industrial complex has no complaints with me these days.

I was asked for my plans for my thirtieth. This, to me, seemed a foolish question. What possible plans could one have other than to sit alone in a room and get drunk. "If you're going to do that, at least do it on Moet," Ella said. I think not - cheap red wine seems the most appropriate beverage for mourning one's lost youth.

Wow, this is quite wallowy - but Arrietty said angsty blog entries are OK. She also said that writing about her angst actually made her feel better than she had in a while, and that's true also. It's quite nice sitting here, listening to Jens Lekman (he just sung the line "I would cut off my right arm to be someone's lover", which is perverse enough to strike a chord with me at the moment). Three of my friends have gone away, more or less at the same time, and heading into winter, too; that doesn't help. Tahlia, in particular, is much missed, both professionally and personally. Just before she was due to fly out I sent her an email, and because I didn't want to send her a sentimental one, I sent her instead the flight transcript of my favourite passenger jet crash (as you do when a friend is about to fly out of the country). As I said to her, it shows that despite the millions spent on airline safety, it all counts for nought when the First Officer (FO, in the transcript) accidentally deploys the spoilers on approach, because he was thinking about something else, causing the plane to bounce into the runway, lose an engine, fly off, have a wing drop off, then crash. Oops. Anyway, in the spirit of morose perversity that is generally embodied in this blog post, I'll reproduce it here. I love it because the First Officer spends the whole transcript metaphorically slapping his forehead - we all make boneheaded mistakes, and can associate; thankfully, most of us aren't entrusted with the lives of passengers on a commercial jet when we make those mistakes.

CA No. No. No
FO Sorry, of sorry, Pete!
[apparent power increase]
[noise of impact]
FO Sorry Pete!
CA Okay
CA We have lost our power
[exclamation]
TWR Air Canada 621. Check you on the overshoot and you can contact departure on 199 or do you wish to come in for a mile on 5 right
CA We'll go around. I think we are all right
RDO FO Roger. We are go all the way (around)
TWR Okay contact departure
FO Roger 199
CA Get the gear up please, Don
[sound of horn]
FO What about the flap
CA Flap 25
FO Sorry. What was I thinking
SO Number 4 generator is gone
CA Okay, get the cross-feed off first (though). Good (unintelligible)
CA Will you give the approach a call?
[Sound of middle marker signal]
RDO-FO Toronto Approach Control. Air Canada 621 is overshooting on 32.
DEP Air Canada 621 confirm on the overhoot
RDO-FO Affirmative
DEP Okay, sir. Your intentions please.
RDO-FO Roger. We would like to circle back for anothr attempt on 32.
DEP Okay. Runway is closed. Debris on the runway. Twenty three left - it is probably about the best. The wind is northwest about 10 to 15. Turn right heading 070 3000 feet.
RDO-FO Right 070 roger 3000
DEP Roger 621
CA We've lost number 4 engine
FO Have we?
CA (unintelligible)
SO Fuel
SO Fuel
CA Aye?
SO Fuel
CA Is it?
FO Yes
CA Okay, cut number 4
?O Number 4 engine
CA Yes
?O Number 3 engine
CA Number 4
?O Number 4, right.
CA Number 3 is jammed, too
FO Is it?
CA There it is.
CA The whole thing is jammed.
[crackling noise]
FO What was that?
FO What happened there, Peter?
CA That't number 4 (unintelligible) Something's happened (unintelligible)
FO Oh, look, we've got a (unintelligible).
[loud sound of explosion]
FO Pete, sorry.
[louder sound of explosion]
CA All right.
DEP 621. The status of your aircraft, please.
[sound of metal tearing]
CA We've got an explosion
FO Oh look, we've got (unintelligible) flame
FO Oh, gosh
?? We've lost a wing
[end of transcript]

"Oh gosh." Here's to hoping my last words are as memorably understated as the First Officer's.

Ah, Jens. Melancholy Swedish pop music was such a good choice. "In 2000 years this place will be covered by ice / And the people who dig us up will be in for a big suprise / After carefully studying our calcium nourished bones / they'll find enclosed, our hearts of stone".

Before I leave off these sorrowful memoirs, I should note that I hung out with Dan of Danmusic last week, and in addition to being a charming, intelligent and thoughtful guy, he is also a much better pool player than I. Although not as good as the guy in the cap who kicked our asses at doubles 4-0. Boy, did that guy enjoy beating us at pool! He kept remarking on how much fun we were to play against, and kept paying for the games, contrary to sacrosanct bar tradition that dictates the losers of the previous game pay for the next. It's understandable, I suppose - I guess one doesn't graduate from Yale Law School without being quite competitive, and nobody's ever accused me of having a relaxed approach to games. In fact, a number of people have reached a point where they refused to play any game with me at all. I would have enjoyed kicking our ass too.

posted by Nicholas @ 9:30 PM