You are not your job. You are not the money in your bank account. You are not the car you drive. You are not how much money is in your wallet. You are not your fucking khakis. You are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.

fight club

Saturday March 17. 2001

i am jack's severe head cold

(possible Fight Club spoilers in this entry - you've been warned)

Note to self: do not, under any circumstances, watch Fight Club right before you go to sleep while you have the flu and are not quite right in the head.

I have the most fucked up dreams when I'm sick. Thursday night it was something about me being in some sort of Chuck E Cheese type playland, chasing around an old Irish guy and trying to fend off large gerbils and hampsters. And then last night. I didn't even watch the whole movie, I turned it off right after Ed Norton finds out that he's Tyler Durden. This set off a good six hours of nightmares, waking up every half hour or forty-five minutes, sure I was about to be shot, or convinced that I was Tyler Durden. At some point I found myself thinking, "Wow, wouldn't it be fucked up if Oliver Stone had directed Fight Club?" And later, in a more concious state, I concluded that it would.

Despite its ability to give me bad dreams, I really think Fight Club is an utterly brilliant and disturbing movie. I spent some time earlier in the day trolling the Internet Movie Database, reading critic's and viewer's reviews, and finally came to the conclusion that most everyone was missing the point. Sure, it's guys beating each other up, but people are too busy decrying the violence that they neglected to see the point behind it - the desperate, burning rage inside some people that has to find a desperate outlet. See Columbine High School, etc.

There's one quote from the movie that still sticks in my head: "The things you own end up owning you."

I feel the weight of everything I own. I look around my apartment - my computer desk, my art desk, my desktop computer, my laptop computer, books, cds, candles, bones, paintings, all the framed posters I have on my walls. They make me feel strangely nervous. I've had this idea in the back of mind, an idea completely not based in reality, that all these things will be taken away from me someday, somehow. I feel burdened by it. Some part of me wants to get rid of all of it, but I know I never will.

The quote to the right, I think, sums up my uneasiness. Because I am trying to define myself by my possessions. I think if I can just get one more thing, it will make me better, it will make me the person I want to be. It sounds so base, so utterly absurd, but subconciously, it's what I've been thinking. I never thought of myself as materialistic, but now I realize that I am. It's such a losing battle, it's always one more thing - I need a throw rug, I need a DVD, I need a CD, if I can just have a set of matching sheets and comforter made by Martha Stewart Every Day, I'll be okay. My life will have meaning, everything will fall in place, I will not be stressed, I will be a happier person. This is what we are told every minute of every day. Are they wrong to feed us this gigantic lie, or are we stupid enough to actually listen?

"Fuck Martha Stewart. Martha's polishing brass on the Titanic."

< | index | >

One Year Ago:
"So yeah, next semester I'll be cheery morning person Bethany, like I am now. Ha."