It’s been awhile. I’ve not given up– I’ve just found myself not indulging in anything new or at least not having anything to say about anything new I’ve absorbed. For a while, those actions led me to believe that I was a bad pop culture leech and that I was failing to keep up. I’m not saying I’ve not absorbed anything new– if anything, I’ve caught up on more than I would have thought (Scandal, Orange is the New black (just started so I may have more to say a few more episodes in), The Killing, many many indie movies, and more). All that being said, I haven’t been passionate about any of it. In fact, I was merely indulging to keep me away from the other thing I was absorbing these past couple months… or rather reabsorbing.
I’m going to back track. Ever since I was a child, I have used pop culture as a safe place. Whenever anything seemed less than perfect, I was often caught absorbing something to keep me out of the real world. I kept my mind off of starting high school by zooming through Dawson’s Creek. The awkward beginnings of high school were dampened by the fictional life I was living in Tree Hill (and the constant internal debate of Nathan vs. Lucas). But it wasn’t even that I found something new completely comforting, in fact, it was anything but that. Even though I was constantly finding something new to love, whenever I was at my most vulnerable, I went back to the comforting and to the familiar. Case and point (or multiple points): Prior to my first AP exam, I watched my favorite episode of One Tree Hill. Any time I need a good cry, Breakfast at Tiffany’s shows up on my screen. If I’m feeling the need for some good brainless nostalgia, I start with Saved By The Bell. The list goes on and on.
I started thinking about this concept as Chantal Kreviazuk’s “Feels Like Home” came on my iPod this evening. This was just as I finished rereading 3 connecting quartets by my favorite author from middle school (that’s 12 books for those needing help with the math). I was feeling someone empty, very sad, but peaceful all at the same time. While the lyrics are definitely nowhere near being about pop culture (but I can say that a certain WB tv show already mentioned here did introduce me to that song), it made me think of why there is this comfort blanket I find in pop culture. With books that I can read and reread, the characters are reliable. I know what they are going to do, and I know how they will behave. As they continue not to surprise me, I also find myself understanding them more as I grow older and wiser. While I may be the one doing the reading, immersing myself in the characters’ worlds allows me to feel like I’m moving along with the readers, and that I’m not growing alone. I can say it makes sense. In fact, there was a point in college that I actually did scientific research on these concepts (not well, mind you). But in all honesty, it makes no sense. Is it perhaps a fear of change that bonds me so closely to things that comfort me? That’s highly likely. Is it the idealism that fictional characters present (you can’t tell me that Bartlett wasn’t an idealistic version of a president with a straight face)? Also likely. Is it the nostalgia that I feel when I indulge myself in something I loved so long ago? Also true. I wish I totally understood the tendency I have to escape back to familiarity, but perhaps it’s a challenge for a later day.
Let’s end with where I started: I remember about 12 years ago when I built myself a mini bookshelf (ironically, I did that this weekend as well). This bookshelf was a pride and joy of mine. I ran out of space for all of my books and this one became mine– the shelf I kept the treasured books on. Next to the shelf, I fashioned a stack of pillows, and I deemed this location my “reading nook”. It wasn’t the most comfortable place in my room, but it still seemed brilliant to my 12 year old self. Not long after, I remember sitting in that corner and crying. I don’t know why I was crying or what was upsetting me, but I remember being upset. And what did I do? I pulled out one of my all time favorite books, Tamora Pierce’s Squire, one of the same books I just finished reading again. I opened to a random chapter and just read. After enough time, the frustration and sadness was still there, but I felt comforted. As a childhood extrovert, alone time wasn’t all that comforting, but with this discovery, I found my comfort. Those few familiar chapters, sentences, or even words brought me a sense of calm I couldn’t find elsewhere. And I still strive to understand why. Perhaps it’s the charm of the male characters I latch onto or perhaps it’s the lack of surprise. Whatever it is, I’ll take it. I only wish it continued after the book ends, but I guess that’s what starting over is for.