"Putting Flesh On The Bones Of My Dreams"

Historians, as a general rule, are ill-equipped to deal with the present. Dreams, as another general rule, are equally ill-equipped to deal with the present; and with reality, for that matter. The former thinks mostly about the past; the latter, about the future and the what could be. I'm a historian and a dream, therefore, I'm uniquely designed to think about everything except for this moment right now.

Which is rather amusing, really, considering I usually advocate a philosophy of "live for the moment." It's one that I try to follow, but I also constantly think about what was and what could be. I'm a study in contradictions, I guess.

The way I think about the past is probably not unique. I have a certain amount of nostalgia for that which went before. I'm more enamoured of the music that was made before I was born than I am of the crap they've got on the radio today. I'm fascinated by the way politics and religion and philosophy worked in the distant past, back when what one believed was more important than money. I also think of the past in more personal terms, recalling the joys and sorrows I've shared with those I love over the years. I long for those moments from the past, to relive particular days, or hours, or even minutes of such pure bliss that the rest of the world ceased to exist as far as I was concerned. I remember first kisses, telling someone I loved them for the first time, the laughter of a friend as I changed their bad day into a good one. I remember the tears I shared with friends over loss, heartache, suffering, and just the random stupidity of life and an uncaring, random world. Yes, my musings on the past are rather wistful, and just a touch bittersweet. Sweet because so many of my memories are good ones, and so much of the more general history I've studied academically is interesting and fascinating to me. Bitter because I know the personal memories are just memories, and I cannot relive them again, even if I am with those people once more. No, time marches on, of course, and nothing I can do--especially wishing--will change that. Also bitter to think that so many of the stupid mistakes our ancestors made are repeated on a daily basis, because we didn't study what came before us and thus cannot understand that these conflicts we keep fighting are not going to be resolved with a show of force and a taste of steel.

The way I think about the future is maybe a bit odder, though even it is probably not unique to me. I am, as I said, a dream. I dream of what could be, of what will never be, of things real and imagined. I dream of the day when I become a professor in history, or even of the day an acceptance letter comes from one of the schools I applied to arrives in the mail. I dream of finding the right girl, of discovering we are right for each other, marrying, and living the cliched "happily ever after" that can only exist in a dream but never in reality, because everyone has to face a bumpy road. And I dream that maybe I've already met her, that we're just waiting for that right moment in time to realize that we're meant for each other. It's hard to say.

Funny thing is, I have a tough time acting in the present to enable me to realize my future, my dreams. I keep thinking it'd be nice to be accepted to a great school for my PhD, but I've been putting off filling out applications. I only finished off everything for another of them this afternoon, and it only took ten minutes to fill out the form, and a quick trip to the Post Office to send everything off.

So why am I so hesitant, so lazy? It's not as though I was filling the rest of my time with excitement or important tasks that could only be done at that very moment. Why can't I connect the past, the present, and the future altogether into one tread of chronology, and recognize that things which were done then have an effect on now, and things done now have an effect later? Why are the three moments disconnected in my mind?

The past is easy enough to understand. They say it's like a foreign country, a distant land which no one can visit. Makes sense. But why do I have such a difficult time accepting the fact that the things I want to do later require activity now? I think it's because I'm a terrible planner, and I also expect things to just happen for me. Life doesn't work like that, though. It's really a good example of just how naive and sheltered I've been, though. I realize on an intellectual level that I have to do things now to enjoy the benefits later, but a small part of me (a part which has a disproportionate control over my decision making to its size) keeps thinking everything will be literally handed to me. That someone will see my comics, and suddenly I'll be famous and loved by many, that all sorts of folks will want to read them and give me money to keep making them. Or that someone will hear Clif and I's music and give us a record contract, and we'll become the next Beatles. Or I'll write some short story that gets me a big publishing deal and I'll be able to be a professional writer.

Not to discount those dreams: it'd be great to be a cartoonist, or writer, or rock star. I would love any of them, and I do keep all three up with some sort of far-fetched hope that someday it'll pay off in more than just an artistic expression of ideas running around in my head, that someone else will appreciate them like I do and feel I deserve some sort of monetary compensation for all my hard work (yes, I want to sell out--but hey, saying you're doing it for the sake of the song is great, and I fully agree with it, but would you rather make music no one ever hears, or make music loved by millions and which makes you lots and lots of money, assuming it doesn't force you to abandon your artistic principles? C'mon, I'm not a punk, I don't believe I lose credibility just because I make art that people like).

I think what it boils down to is that I do want things given to me, I don't want to have to work hard for them. This is a huge personal defect, a gaping hole in an otherwise not too bad personality (wow, I think that still came out conceited). I can work hard, I just don't like to without the certainty of success at the end. I don't want to have to fill out applications to graduate schools without the assurance that I'll not only be accepted to the school, but I'll get a scholarship and I'll be able to get gainful employment upon graduation.

Perhaps another example is in order--exercise. I hate to exercise, because I don't get immediate results. It takes a long time for any visible result to manifest itself. I mean, I run and run, and don't lose weight very quickly, if at all (though that's in part due to my eating habits, but that's another story). I know there are many long-term benefits to exercising, I just don't see any immediate ones. I hurt, I sweat, and I'm not noticeably thinner at the end of the workout. So what's the bloody point? It's why I lose interest in things like that (or like playing the guitar, which I've tried several times) so quickly--nothing tangible comes of it immediately, so why bother?

As I said, this is a pretty big problem, and one I struggle with every moment of every day in some form or another. It could be that part of my problem is that I'm the product of a society which places such emphasis and importance on instant gratification, on the fulfillment of base desires right now. But that's just a cop out, really. If I'm truly interested in something, I should put forth the damn effort to achieve it, whether my effort is immediately rewarded or not. I have to be in this for the long haul, I have to make this moment mean something not only for now, but for later.

I have to try, because dammit, what's the point in living for the moment if my moments on down the road are going to be empty, painful, and without purpose?

~chaos cricket

Song of the Moment: David Gray, "Flesh"