I've been eagerly awaiting my existential crisis for years.
I know it seems a little sick for me to be eager about anything involving the word "crisis", but I always thought it sounded sophisticated and mature, something that artists must have before they create anything of worth. I didn't think it right to prematurely launch into one merely because I wanted one. And you can't really fake an existential crisis, that's counter productive. So I've been waiting around, for it to be natural of course, and finally after all this time I think it's starting to set in.
Over winter break I ran into an old friend at a bar. He had just graduated from college and I asked him how he was doing. He said, "To be honest with you, not good. I'm in the middle of an Existential Crisis." I could tell by the tone of his voice that both "Existential" and "Crisis" were capitalized. That's when I realized the key to understanding your crisis is knowing if it's capitalized. At the time, one semester away from my own graduation, I began to wonder when the Crisis would begin creeping its way into my consciousness. I'm notoriously well adjusted to dealing with change--so much that my lack of stress has stressed out others--so I started believing, in the presence of my liquored up and broken down friend, that his experience would simply not be mine and I'd have to find a way to write a best selling novel without the help of personal turmoil. Great! I thought. I'm doomed to be apathetic forever!
And then I graduated.
Within days of the ceremony I was convinced that a horrible mistake had been made. College had mistakenly issued me a degree; my department accidentally granted me Honors cords; I didn't actually pass any of my classes. It was all a hoax. And all I could think was you did this to yourself. My college is very serious about getting students through in four years and, in turn, students are also serious about finishing in four years. Anything more than that is taboo and, since College is the size of a high school, everybody knows if you have to stay on for even as much as the summer. There are implications and assumptions abound when you don't finish in four years. So, in that regard, I was happy to be done. I was actually quite pleased with the various achievements I had in college, starting all the way back in September of 2008. But what do I do...now? And what will I do tomorrow? Because the only thing I want to do doesn't involve an application and, naturally, nobody really understands that. I can't say I understand it much either. Again, I did this to myself.
I messaged my friend. I wanted to know if his Crisis had subsided yet; if there was any hope for the rest of us. I asked him how long it lasts and what I am to do in the mean time. His response was genial, positively optimistic. Among his kind words he offered me the only sound piece of advice I had received as a recent-grad. "Re-watch The Graduate."
Though I was sitting alone and reading aloud to only myself, I looked around to make sure no one saw me flush bright pink. I was finally facing one of my darkest secrets: I had never seen The Graduate. I could only watch it for the first time as opposed to the re-watching that was recommended. In all my years of being known as the utmost-film-afficianado-trivia-pop-culture-tycoon, this one had slipped through the cracks. In my head it was registered as: "Graduate, The. Dir. Mike Nichols. Starring Dustin Hoffman, Anne Bancroft, Katharine Ross, 1967. Best soundtrack ever. Won an Oscar, I think." But the time had come (as the walrus would say) and, if I was going to please my Existential Crisis Spirit Guide, then I also had to trust his advice.
I pressed play on The Graduate this past Tuesday after arriving home from a long day that felt more produtive than it really was. It was early in the afternoon--perfect for movie watching as I generally like to be left alone when taking in anything. The movie had played for maybe 30 seconds before I realized Benjamin Braddock is my real spirit guide. The opening scene of the movie is simply a profie shot of Benjamin on the moving sidewalk at the airport. He has just come back to California from four years of college on the east coast. For three minutes and ten seconds (as that's the duration of Simon and Garfunkel's "Sound of Silence"), we just stare at Benjamin as the credits roll. And his look pretty much says it all. I wager most of our faces looked the same way when we landed in the airport or walked down the stairs after sleeping in our own beds again or the first time we walked into a bar at home. The look that says: Holy Shit. What just happened. Now I know plenty of people who did not like school, who made a goal of finishing early, who didn't have fun, et cetera, et cetera. And that's fine. But if those people graduated and didn't even feel the tiniest pang of "Oh, shit"--out of joy, fear, or anything else you were feeling--then I guess I am the one who has made assumptions about the college experience.
I let out an audible "Yes, thank you," when Benjamin's father was asking him to please come downstairs and talk to the guests who were there for a party. Benjamin doesn't want to talk to any of them and, when he does, they only want to talk about his future. The brilliance of the script and the character is that Benjamin did everything right in college; editor of the paper, debate team president, cross country captain. We are not introduced to a burn out or someone who's terribly whiny and self involved because of circumstances they brought upon themselves. He's the guy who should have been employed first and yet he's not. Nobody can grapple with how this happened. "Do you have a job? Are you going to grad school?" they ask hopefully. Apparently the options haven't changed much in the last 45 years. Yes, that's right, 45 years. I am positive that this movie could be made tomorrow and nothing would have to be changed. None of the dialogue, shots, nuance. Keep it all the same because nothing has changed. There is everybody else's expectation and then there is you, wishing to be left alone in your scuba suit at the bottom of a swimming pool.
Whenever people ask me what my plans are, I can only answer honestly with "I don't know." Because I don't know. I know what I'd like to accomplish creatively and professionally, I know where I'd like to go [geographially] and I understand that these things are not going to happen tomorrow. The response I get is usually, "Don't worry--something will come a long." What's funny is that I've never been worried about something coming along. I didn't know I was supposed to be.
In conclusion: Go watch The Graduate. It's on Netflix instant play so you have no excuse not to. (So is Drive. [2011, Dir. Some Swedish guy I think, starring Ryan Gosling, Carey Mulligan, and I'll apparently never look at Albert Brooks the same way again. Keep eye out for the scene with that song by College] I almost wrote about Drive). Embrace your Existential Crisis and don't worry about a thing. Unless you start having affairs with married people. I can't help you. Actually, you can still watch The Graduate for that.
WATCH A MOVIE!!! (make sure it's a good one, then recommend it to me.)
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