Sad To The Bone

Soren Kierkegaard: “In my great melancholy, I loved life, for I love my melancholy.”

Albert Camus: “There is no love of life without despair about life.”

Kurt Cobain: “I miss the comfort in being sad.”

Kierkegaard believed in God. Camus believed in Absurdism. Cobain believed in Nirvana.

All three, I believe, are no longer with us.


Beyond Belief

I lack the strength to fully accept or reject the existence of God.

I can’t identify with hardline atheists who know beyond a doubt there is no God. Duped by the almighty power of reason, non-believers turn to a religion with its own zealots: science. The laboratory serves as the site of the uber-rationalist’s Divine Liturgy. He chides the theologian for naming that which he cannot see and proceeds to diagram particles invisible to the naked eye.

But let’s be honest: I’m not fond of Sunday services and I’m uncomfortable with the doctrine of original sin. I loath the hypocrisy of pious folks who skim the Bible for commandments that apply to everyone but themselves.

I find God in the chorus of a Nirvana song. Long legs and high heels. The vibrant rhythms of a Ginsberg poem. The rush that chocolate provides. I yearn for meaning, to go beyond belief. To recognize my being completely.

God or not, I live for the possibility of joy. And the strength to know I deserve it.

Can You Feel My Love Buzz?

I like my music loud and aggressive. It’s been that way since I fell in love with Guns N’ Roses in grade school. By no means have I outgrown my passion for rock n’ roll. My anger, as with the frustrations that accompany adulthood, remains stronger than ever.

Indeed rebellion plays a big role here. But what am I rebelling against?

Perhaps it’s from the sublimation of my desires. That great twentieth-century psychoanalyst was on to something when he outlined this idea. In order for each of us to live safely in society, we must forgo dangerous impulses toward things like sex and violence. We sacrifice our strongest urges for the comfort of community.

But civilization, in domesticating us, ultimately fails to tame our inner beast. We still crave action, especially where it’s prohibited. When I can’t get what I want, this very moment, I get angry but refrain from expressing my fury lest I be judged a threat to myself or others.

Bands like Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, Nine Inch Nails and Rage Against The Machine bring me temporary relief through the guitars, drums, microphones and amplifiers they employ. Or so this theory goes.

Here’s another, less complicated take.

My high school graduation was over fourteen years ago, but I still remember the daily battles between the jocks and freaks—the clever label given to artsy kids who liked to skateboard and don super baggy jeans. There’s no denying that I embodied the essence of the anti-jock, but I wasn’t a full-fledged freak either.

I was just a geeky teen looking for love. Listening to grunge and punk songs made me feel special and immune from the herd mentality. It gave me confidence and helped me tackle the day.

Better yet, it helped me impress the ladies.

The jocks had their games (and gym class) to show off. I had poetry, music, art. We both wanted the same thing, though: to get laid. Rather than simply allowing me to release my rage, music afforded me a chance to turn my experience of it into a performance to wow the crowd. A crowd, I still hope today, with at least one chick that digs me.