Monday, 20 April 2009

• Currently Pocketful of Sunshine By Natasha Bedingfield see related

  Blood, Sweat, and Years

  On Saturday night I found myself overlooking northern Orange County from atop a hill, and this immediately reminded me of the view from atop Mt. Soledad in San Diego.  When I was in college Mt. Soledad was generally a place where high school students went to have sex to Jodeci songs in their cars, but for me it was a place to get away from the rest of the world and the problems that were associated with it.  Seeing the entire city from the top of a hill had a knack for putting things into different perspectives.  In one sense, seeing the whole city made me feel empowered and in complete control of my life.  But, in another sense, it also made me realize that my existence was insignificant to the overall fabric of the Universe.  Looking out from hill tops made me feel significant and worthless at the same time.  I tend to enjoy the bipolarity of that experience, which probably also explains why I like movies starring Russell Brand.

  It had been over ten years since a view like this made me reflective, but at this particular time I was feeling neither important nor worthless.  I started thinking about my life over the past decade:   Living in another state away from my friends and family, my brush with love, the subsequent heartbreak, and the devastating fall out.   I was reminded of the days I struggled with myself and the nights I pushed the limits of my own existence.  I remembered how much I hated myself and how much I wanted everything to end.  I don’t know why, at this particular moment, I felt nostalgic for the worst years of my life.  But, surprisingly, this didn’t make me sad. 

  It made it feel like it was all worthwhile. 

  This shouldn’t make sense.  I don’t understand my emotions, but sometimes that’s not a bad thing.

  As I looked over the city of Fullerton, I was left breathless, and it wasn’t just because of the fantastic view.   A group of drunk people were furiously smoking cigarettes twenty feet to my left.  The wedding reception I was attending was beginning to die down.  Guests were trickling out of the restaurant’s banquet hall and onto the balcony, eager to escape the booming music that was rocking the indoor festivities.  The surge of people outside broke my silent reverie and brought me back to reality.  For the first time in a long time, real life felt okay.

  I don’t know if I’m quite there yet, but the view is looking good from this perspective.

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