"It'll all work out." I realized yesterday in a slightly teary fit of one-beer retro blues that this has been my modus operandi for as long as I can remember being me. And that in point of fact, thirty-odd years of said m.o. flies in the face of all truths I hold to be self-evident--because very little in my life has actually worked out in a way that has been satisfactory in the long run. I have had much joy in life, and much success, and many de-lovely delights this time around, and I am grateful for every last one of them--but a consistent hum of hurt, confusion, and ultimate defeat buzzes low with sporadic crackles sprinkled over the airwaves.
And yet, in reality, although I have a streak of the melancholic Irish coursing through my mixed-up veins, I am not fatalistic. Sarcastic, yes; practical, often; stubborn, absolutely. But I have never been one to live out my days with wholly tragic outlook. Tragicomic, yes; the whole if one doesn't laugh one will, well, cry, aka find oneself fetal in the back room of Suncoast Pictures....but even in those days of no light, like a certain teenage diarist I have always believed that people are really good at heart--even when my heart is broken by what happens to and around me. I always think things will work out--and notice this quote has no "best" or "somehow" or "in the end" attached to it. Diagram this baby and it's all quite clear "It" will be "out" (whatever that means, tangled time will tell.) Believing that it'll all work out speaks to an optimism that may feel refreshing in the heat of these fiery times we live in--but I have to wonder if it is (as it was for the speaker) merely a naivete that has long lost its power to soothe the savage beast.
"It's only politics." Party line(s) aside, it is surprisingly easy to de-loop oneself. The information superhighway offers both destination anywhere and destination overload, so it's a matter of self-preservation to filter out at least 90% of what Tammany Hall is throwing at you. And that is just the world view, at large, where cities are burning like Gomorrah and health care becomes a dish best served to Salome and immigration problems belie the phenomena of crossing the Red Sea. The suburban microcosm where you hang your hat offers its own constant streaming downloads of crazy. And suddenly your social networking begins to define your reality, when in fact it has very little to do with the living, breathing you--it is the Madame Tussaud's version of you, the molded waxen exterior that mere mortals can tour and say "cheese" beside. The political ramifications of cyberspace are staggering, and sow the seeds of discontent into its furthest-flung static IPs, where greed and malice and unadulterated evil sprout and destroy your bill of rights, your code of conduct, your fight for what is right over what you believe in. And yet we ignore the divisiveness because it is far easier to just go along--it will all work out--why sweat the small stuff even though small become big overnight and smacks you in the face?
And finally, "What does that have to do with us?" Everything, and nothing, you rhetorical double fantasy you. How many times do you get up onstage and do your routine before it defines you so wholly that there is no escaping the inevitable gaslight chamber? How much do you cling to what you know when dancing cheek-to-cheek with everything you don't? How do you reconcile then with now, now with later, once with forever? I have absolutely no fucking idea. But I will keep asking.
A bien tote....
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