More Pretentious Masturbation
Today's post begins with one of my favorite lines from one of my favorite books (Giovanni's Room, Baldwin): "Now, from this night, this coming morning, no matter how many beds I find myself in between now and my final bed, I shall never be able to have any more of those boyish, zestful affairs--which are, really, when one thinks of it, a kind of higher, or, anyway, more pretentious masturbation." (p. 5)
See, most people just sound touched in the head when they say that kind of stuff; but Baldwin finds the sweet spot--and ends up sounding poetic while he reaches into your soul and enlightens you as to your condition.
Okay, now onto other matters.
Why I hate San Diego.
This has been a difficult question to answer for the last two years. But today, as I walked my usual route to the shuttle, punctuated by bougainvillea--those colorful flowers made of tissue, which hang like harlots from modest trees, and then sat through my shuttle ride to campus, the sunshine drenching the mountains and fields of green, the scent of eucalyptus mingling with lavender, and then onto my walk through campus up to my department--which is really a walk through a living postcard, complete with flowers covering the spectrum of Roy G. Bib's rainbow, palm fronds stretching out to stroke your face, it finally hit me. This place is too full of obvious beauty. I never feel like I've found a secret; a treasure which has surely escaped someone else's eye--that sight which probably feeds my aesthetic hunger, but leaves others starved...Nope. The beauty here just runs up and smacks you in the face. Nothing subtle. All obvious. Or the subtle is being bullied into submission by the obvious.
And to be honest, I don't dig obvious beauty. I'm never attracted to the Brad Pitts of this world, I don't find most actresses attractive, others' dream vacations are my nightmare paradises. I love walking through run-down neighborhoods, and imagining the all that must have contributed to its decay; the way an old house's porch sags with the weight of memories and conversations that must have stretched into the still-warm evening of that excrutiatingly hot July...the process of weathering, the process of life--an enjoyable sadness. That is what is beautiful to me. And that is what I cannot find here.
See, most people just sound touched in the head when they say that kind of stuff; but Baldwin finds the sweet spot--and ends up sounding poetic while he reaches into your soul and enlightens you as to your condition.
Okay, now onto other matters.
Why I hate San Diego.
This has been a difficult question to answer for the last two years. But today, as I walked my usual route to the shuttle, punctuated by bougainvillea--those colorful flowers made of tissue, which hang like harlots from modest trees, and then sat through my shuttle ride to campus, the sunshine drenching the mountains and fields of green, the scent of eucalyptus mingling with lavender, and then onto my walk through campus up to my department--which is really a walk through a living postcard, complete with flowers covering the spectrum of Roy G. Bib's rainbow, palm fronds stretching out to stroke your face, it finally hit me. This place is too full of obvious beauty. I never feel like I've found a secret; a treasure which has surely escaped someone else's eye--that sight which probably feeds my aesthetic hunger, but leaves others starved...Nope. The beauty here just runs up and smacks you in the face. Nothing subtle. All obvious. Or the subtle is being bullied into submission by the obvious.
And to be honest, I don't dig obvious beauty. I'm never attracted to the Brad Pitts of this world, I don't find most actresses attractive, others' dream vacations are my nightmare paradises. I love walking through run-down neighborhoods, and imagining the all that must have contributed to its decay; the way an old house's porch sags with the weight of memories and conversations that must have stretched into the still-warm evening of that excrutiatingly hot July...the process of weathering, the process of life--an enjoyable sadness. That is what is beautiful to me. And that is what I cannot find here.
posted by slickaphonic at 6:46 PM
1 Comments:
Wow, thank you so much for writing this and enlightening me. I moved away from San Diego six months ago and could never figure out what ultimately drove me to leave, until now. As a flawed person myself, I have come to admire communities and individuals that develop a personality and soul despite their imperfections.
One night I remember sitting up in my apartment overlooking mission bay and watching the opening scene of the Sopranos ACTUALLY WISHING I was in a gritty place like northern New Jersey. I would take random trips up to Los Angeles just to get a reality check. Imagine that... LA, the epicenter of superficiality and weirdness was actually more in touch with reality than San Diego.
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