{"id":5389,"date":"2023-01-31T12:03:23","date_gmt":"2023-01-31T17:03:23","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/beyondthelastestate.com\/archive\/?p=5389"},"modified":"2023-01-31T13:50:11","modified_gmt":"2023-01-31T18:50:11","slug":"january-blues","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/beyondthelastestate.com\/archive\/january-blues\/","title":{"rendered":"January Blues"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

I spend most of my endless mornings arranging to crawl out of the bed I sleep in.\u00a0 It\u2019s a bed where there are probably more bed bugs than breadcrumbs for tiny mouthparts to feast on, and there are definitely more breadcrumbs than thread count on the rough sheets I wrap myself in when I\u2019m using sheets and not just sleeping on the mattress itself, which is almost never.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

It\u2019s a new year, and all the little trackers inside brains that count <\/span>joy<\/span><\/a>, thankfulness, and blessings have reset for the season, like the <\/span>honor ratings<\/span><\/a> in<\/span> League of Legends<\/span><\/i>.\u00a0 I\u2019m back at zero, blaring \u201cZero\u201d by Smashing Pumpkins in my phone\u2019s earbuds while mice do <\/span>urbex<\/span><\/a> inside the empty walls.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

What I can see, what I have seen, of 2023 looks identical to 2022 in my dusty eyes, although asking someone with depression to compare the years always seems penal, akin to asking a victim to identify their assailant in a lineup.\u00a0 When talking about the years, \u201cworse than\u201d and \u201cbetter than,\u201d to me, all sound like measures on some scale of retributive justice, and there\u2019s no justice, and the retribution usually brings more pain than peace of mind.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cWait, Rudy, maybe it\u2019s just you,\u201d I tell myself, \u201cMaybe you just need some perspective, or another <\/span>Psychology Today<\/span><\/i> ad keyword.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

But as I make my way towards my morning shower\u2014this vague goal that\u2019s sliding farther and farther back in my priorities list (a fact that the Estate\u2019s non-euclidean geometry acknowledges by pushing the end of the hallway back infinitely)\u2014I peer into the rooms of my housemates.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

It turns out that the <\/span>Goddess of Depression\u2019s<\/span><\/a> cup overfloweth (like seriously, <\/span>way<\/span><\/i> more than half full) and everyone is laid low by some malaise that\u2019s either seasonal, regional, or indeterminable-but-still-really-shitty.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I want to have a conversation.\u00a0 I want to ask people how they stave off these long, distended days, these January blues, but goddamn, I\u2019m a social recluse and it\u2019s like 1 PM and the meds are not hitting the right way yet.\u00a0 So instead, I keep walking towards that far away bathroom while typing out a question in the Discord we all share:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat’s your ‘depression grinding’ media that you use to chew through the hours where you just can’t move?\u201d<\/i><\/b><\/h4>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The responses are timeless.\u00a0 I mean that as a statement about how time seems when you\u2019re depressed\u2014asynchronous, bleeding\u2014and also a statement about the unconquerable nature of depression, I guess.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

As I trudge on, I read through my friends\u2019 musings as they come in and feel some measure of calm wash over me.\u00a0 I feel lucid.\u00a0 I feel at least lukewarm.\u00a0 Finally, I feel the solid oak door of the bathroom collide with my forehead as I crash into it, my attention divided by \u201cZero\u201d and the chat notifications.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I stand looking at the door blankly, my brain caught in an error loop.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

THE RESPONSES<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sabrina Small<\/b><\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

What I want is painless annihilation. What I want is to slip into a gentle ballet of self punishment. I\u2019ll paint yesterday\u2019s picture: I am nervous about never working again, disappointing everyone to the point of social exile, and grieving the expected but always abrupt departure of my kids, who have gone to their dad for the week. The apartment is silent. Outside it\u2019s raining, handing me a big fat justification to wallow. It is 10:30 and I make spaghetti puttanesca. I bring the oily red mess of noodles onto the couch and cover myself with a blanket, which I will use as a napkin, bib, and possibly snot rag. It will be dark in 5 hours but for now, I have to draw the curtain. I shove noodles into my mouth hole and find something starring Ryan Reynolds. I don\u2019t think he\u2019s attractive. It\u2019s not about desire. I don\u2019t think he\u2019s a bad or good actor. He just is. His brand is dependable.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I watch <\/span>Free Guy<\/span><\/a>. The title is so bad. The title sounds like it was written by ESL students. The movie is also bad. It\u2019s so stupid and obvious that the funny parts seem like an accident, some version of, \u201cif 100 monkeys typed all day for eternity, eventually they\u2019d write Hamlet.\u201d Jody Comer is in Free Guy and I pay close attention to her shark eyes, the fetal alcohol beauty of her face. I notice the little things, the freckles on her back as she hunches before her computer. Did she hate every second of this or did she treat it like a job and enjoy the perks? I pause often. I make an appointment with my gynecologist. I fill the sodastream and press until I hear the satisfying carbonation fart. I\u00a0 eat the rest of a pint of cookie-dough ice cream. I piss 12 times. I check twitter and discord. I long for death\u2019s embrace. The whole time, I\u2019m thinking about the minutes ticking down. The plot will find its tidy ending and I’ll be left behind, searching for another way to fill the void. Movies are for amateurs. I know this. It\u2019s better to pick something with multiple seasons. Double digit seasons. I can\u2019t return to the comfort of Bob\u2019s Burgers or The Office. I\u2019ve dipped into those wells too often. I start <\/span>Broadchurch<\/span><\/a>, three seasons will get me to the point of passing out from exhaustion. Oh and look! A dead kid. I fart loud enough to scare the cat and settle in for the night.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Derek Maine<\/b><\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The clack of the cue ball striking a red. The long run up the soft cushioned green baize. The sound of English commentators talking in hushed wry tones. A century break. A maximum break. Ronnie O\u2019Sullivan is potting everything tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Not writing. Worrying. A drunken fan yells out mid-shot. The referee issues a stern warning. Ball in hand. I am forty years old, my children are young, happy, and healthy. I am in love with my wife. I am financially secure. <\/span>Some nights<\/span><\/a> I lie in total darkness and shake uncontrollably. Some nights I lie naked on the tile floor in the bathroom. I am terrified and lonely, and have no reason to be. Best of eleven frames. The words are trapped in my throat. I need to find New York again, but where? Certainly not Chicago, not this year. The <\/span>2023 Masters Snooker tournament<\/span><\/a> took place at the Ally Pally in London, and was ultimately won by Judd Trump, the thirty-one year old from Whitchurch, Bristol. I watched every second between deep breaths and sometimes tears<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Forrest Muelrath<\/b><\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I must always be working, I told myself while failing high school algebra. I must always be working on the things I was meant to work on so I can show the world my true purpose for being alive. But I can’t always be working. Some days I have none of the energy to do the things I believe I am meant to do. So, I learned to trick myself into feeling like I was working.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

It started when I fell asleep with a popsicle on my laptop keyboard. After I ruined my laptop with popsicle juice, my girlfriend gave me her old laptop and said, Maybe you can make this one work? I installed open-source software on my girlfriend\u2019s laptop. It took me a long time to get the laptop working with open-source software, but once I did I was fascinated. Everything was so open. I could see everything the computer was doing. The computer would write out everything it was doing in .log files. I found the .log files and started reading them. Reading is part of the work I am supposedly meant to do, so reading the .log files felt like working.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Even though my computer was working well enough to do my work, I was not satisfied. I wanted my computer screen to look a certain way so I would not be distracted from doing my work. I read the .log files and I figured out how to change all the colorful icons on my computer screen so that they would look like the stains on my shirt.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I am not a computer programmer. I know people who program computers and they can remember complex codes and long strings of numbers after seeing them just once. I am lucky if can remember the code <\/span>#FBF1C7<\/span> after typing it dozens of times \u2014 the code I use to change everything on my computer to a color that matches my mood when I don’t feel like working \u2014 the color tan.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Once I have changed everything on my computer so it is a tan color, I have supposedly created a distraction-free environment on my screen so that I can do my work. Then I figure out how to install something like Tetris on my tan screen. After a while I grow tired of Tetris, and I start messing with the Tetris code to see if I can change the color of the blocks in the game. Soon enough, I have jostled the computer code in a way that makes my screen go black. After the screen is black, I start all over, installing the software, changing all of the icons and colors so they match my mood to create a perfect work environment, and so on.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Gianluca Cameron<\/b><\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

In terms of depression media, nothing really fits such a description for me more than the two to three hour long<\/span> Family Guy<\/span><\/a>\/American Dad compilations by <\/span>7 Rong Entertainment<\/span><\/a>. When one is feeling empty, one goes to YouTube. One doesn’t feel as if there is enough time for a movie and yet a feature length television compilation doesn’t feel like a major waste of time. The content farm avoids being struck for stitching together episodes of the aforementioned adult cartoons by randomly zooming in, cutting scenes and placing music over muted dialogue. While the choice of episodes and the implementation of the first two effects seem arbitrary, the third effect usually occurs during a scene where music is playing. This is interesting not only because it suggests an uncharacteristic degree of intentionality – it also creates an amusing effect (one is not initially aware that the soundtrack is different and also, the obscured dialogue gives the scene a degree of mystique). It’s telling that Family Guy and American Dad were the shows that became the basis of a low-effort content farm. Considering that such videos reach tens of thousands of views, the fanbase of such shows are clearly not alienated by the presentation. One can easily fall asleep to the stream of gags that may as well be contextless but the videos often reward close attention through moments of incoherence that don’t seem attributable to conscious intent. It’s akin to observing an AI-generated work but here, human-created episodes are the raw material through which this construction comes into being. Through watching several of these episodes, switching between compilations at will, I began to form more of an appreciation for Family Guy. How Peter was simultaneously a manifestation of pure will and a great satire of the infantilisation that can come with being the ‘man of the house’. How he is both bisexual and perhaps a closet transgender woman. How Peter and Brian both embody the spineless and conformist spirit of the modern man. Some episodes struck me – I felt they deserved an in-depth analysis. But there were no accompanying titles. Instead, the works were scrambled together – specificity lost in a great remix. In a sense, such compilations embody the essence of Family Guy. The kind of thing to turn on when you feel nothing and want to continue to feel nothing. Just funny enough to keep one distracted but not engrossing enough to provoke thought. A nice emotional flatline so as to maintain pure deadness. The 7 Rong Entertainment Family Guy compilations are perfect depression media because when one sees no future and no value in the self, they are very much the only kind of thing one wants to watch. Something to distract oneself from being. However, by abstracting itself from any one coherent creator and progressing even more into the form of content slurry, 7 Rong are actually more honest than the Family Guy team (intentionally or not). They have developed upon the intention of their forefathers by creating compilations that can deaden the soul for extended periods of time and aid the transition of the property into pure irony. Not even the facsimile-narrative of the Family Guy episode is free from distortion. When one feels inhuman, one must resort to inhuman entertainment.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

D\u2019Urban Moffer<\/b><\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

For comfort\u2014when the dog bites or the nanobots take up stinging because they\u2019re replacing the fucking bees\u2014I can always turn to the era of my crystallization or modern, facsimile representations.\u00a0 No, that epoch wasn\u2019t all it\u2019s cracked up to be and rightfully should be ridiculed, but the decades of my childhood were undeniably a time of solid, low-fi gold.\u00a0 These were days when ultraphony slow-mo and low-impact action sequences flew with your average audience, especially in TV (once considered the lowest of all filmic forms).\u00a0 Good examples of this can be found in 70\u2019s iterations of <\/span>The Tomorrow People<\/span><\/a>, <\/span>The Hulk<\/span><\/a>, or <\/span>The Rockford Files<\/span><\/a>.\u00a0 Men and women in shorty shorts turning to foam dummies when exposed to car crashes or falling out high-rise windows.\u00a0 I loathe commercials much past the 1980\u2019s- smash the mute button and avert my eyes every time I watch a show or movie that incorporates them in 2023.\u00a0 Advertising <\/span>feels dirtier<\/span><\/a>, more manipulative, more \u2018deep state\u2019 than ever. Vintage, <\/span>vintage commercials<\/span><\/a> can give me a serotonin boost for hours after viewing.\u00a0 Subliminal advertising was well underway but it had decades of tweaking to go before it hit its current stride, and the rules were oddly both looser and stricter about what could be said\/done during what was coined \u2018prime time.\u2019\u00a0 Public Television from that era is another mood booster.\u00a0 Mr. Rogers will always be there, pixelated and drawling, when I really need to smelt my brain to a sludge so I can hammer it into a vastly more appealing configuration.\u00a0 The rumor that he was a military sniper is a <\/span>myth<\/span><\/a>.\u00a0 It\u2019s true, however, that <\/span>he was a vegetarian<\/span><\/a>; some people don\u2019t want to eat children.\u00a0 How can you be a Gloomy Gus when you catch his act?\u00a0 You can\u2019t unless you\u2019re an awful, rotten person.\u00a0 As you may know, for me The Home Shopping Network can certainly fill the emotional gaps between irl cringe-inducing interactions and solitary, in-the-corner brooding.\u00a0 <\/span>QVC<\/span><\/a> triggers a sopor so deep I\u2019m utterly lost in the rubbery folds of the unnecessary, superfluous, or downright ridiculous until I\u2019m teetering at the very edges of the toxic consumer spectrum.\u00a0 It makes me feel dizzy and dumb.\u00a0 I love it.\u00a0 Nothing tickles my funnybone more than people acting like a set of four multicultural garden gnomes is the answer to everything that was ever missing or wrong in their lives.\u00a0 Who knows.\u00a0 When the air-raid sirens blare and the green gas rolls, maybe I\u2019ll crawl into my corpse-sized LocknLock \u00ae container and be spared by spare parts.\u00a0 Need more of the gizmos and gaskets that prepare us for or forestall our caskets.\u00a0 This is also a throwback to the second wave of specialized cable channel roll-outs, <\/span>the cusp of the analog and digital eras<\/span><\/a>.\u00a0 The days of yesteryear are forever repackaged, resold, and after enough time\u2019s gone by retro always seems cool to kids.\u00a0 Music that imitates certain beloved genres from my past, categories like <\/span>mall<\/span><\/a> or <\/span>signalwave<\/span><\/a>, any type of original <\/span>MUZAK<\/span><\/a> \u00ae (before it became just another form of lousy TOP 40 radio) will lull me into a nostalgic candyland that only the smell and sound of fecal matter being violently expelled by some drunken soul on the the bus can knock me out of.\u00a0 I wouldn\u2019t mention it if it hadn\u2019t happened just last week.\u00a0 But, see, even that was a mood elevator because I\u2019ve got a wide-open mind and a terrible sense of smell.\u00a0 Pardon my unnecessary and stomach-churning digression.\u00a0 Here\u2019s one: give me <\/span>Catholic radio<\/span><\/a> for a good time and lotsa laughs any day.\u00a0 I particularly like when their apologetics turn to apoplectics.\u00a0 They\u2019re experts at the good dog, bad dog act. Lastly, let me say that \u2018<\/span>Orgy of the Dead<\/span><\/a>\u2019 or <\/span>\u2018Bride of the Monster<\/span><\/a>\u2019 by Ed Wood fire and inspire when a certain type of blue mood hits. <\/span>Bela Lugosi<\/span><\/a> was in the nadir of his career in BOTM, and it shows.\u00a0 Poor guy.\u00a0 He\u2019s a riot in this.\u00a0 Perfection in art is overrated.\u00a0 Perfection in life is non-existent.\u00a0 Don\u2019t get me wrong, I\u2019m a craft lover, snobbybob too, but I have to tell you, I appreciate the complete lack of these components.\u00a0 The absence of them in times of mental unease delights me to no end.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Jesse Hilson<\/b><\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

To get through the grind of depression requires distraction and keeping some kind of insight into your true mental state and a struggle against the “retrospective falsification” that would tell you that this mood is going to last forever and has lasted forever. That way lies suicide. I don’t like making a fetish out of depression or suicidal ideation or trying to publicly prove my own mood disorder bona fides. But lately I’ve had my share of black moods and to do DBT distress tolerance I’ve distracted myself by listening to drifting music on YouTube and just let it run and select music for me. I’ve discovered William Basinski, Susumu Yokata, Daniel Avery & Alessandro Cortini, Floating Points, as well as classics like Material’s “<\/span>Cucumber Slumber (Fluxus Mix)<\/span><\/a>,” We(TM)’s “<\/span>3\/10ths of the Population<\/span><\/a>,” Kilowatthours’ “<\/span>Jignauseum<\/span><\/a>,” Marshall Tucker Band’s “<\/span>Heard It In a Love Song<\/span><\/a>,” and Cocteau Twins’ works with Harold Budd — but the real discovery for me this year, the band that has most often helped me cut across four lanes of emotional traffic to avoid getting sucked into the Final Exit which mysteriously keeps popping up has been Finnish singer Cucina Povera and her collab with Ben Vince called “<\/span>There I See Everything<\/span><\/a>.”\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

William Duryea<\/b><\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

When you’ve been clinically depressed for years\u2014for decades, for your entire adult life really\u2014all media eventually becomes depression media. There are no longer separate categories for “art I consume when I’m depressed” and “art I consume when I’m feeling good,” but instead there are gradients of despair, and each gradient has its own tolerances and demands vis-\u00e0-vis media consumption. It’s like one of those iceberg memes that have spawned countless YouTube<\/span>1<\/sup><\/a><\/span><\/span> explainer videos, where the entries become more depraved and bizarre as you move farther from the light. In fact, it’s so much like that, and I hate writing so much, that I made an iceberg meme in lieu of providing a thoughtful response to Rudy’s prompt. I’m sorry, man.<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Rudy Johnson<\/b><\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Unfortunately, I\u2019ve always taken to sedating myself with doomscrolling when I\u2019m really depressed.\u00a0 For my New Year’s resolution (or mockery of one), I\u2019ve decided to practice healthier social media habits.\u00a0 That means that when I get real sad\u2014when I\u2019m such a shade of myself that I start to <\/span>fall through the world<\/span><\/a>\u2014I tune my birdsite dial to one of the many WorldStar-imitation fight video accounts, and tune out the <\/span>toxic shitheap<\/span><\/a> I normally look at.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

My favorite is <\/span>@FightHaven<\/span><\/a>.\u00a0 There are many videos on FightHaven that are good.\u00a0 I\u2019ll improvise some titles here to show the type of things that bait me in:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Cop throws gun and badge down and throws hands with a kid<\/span><\/i> 👊<\/span><\/p>\n

Bro decks a girl harassing him.\u00a0 Too far or equal rights \/ lefts<\/span><\/i>?\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Girl goes Hulk on bullies.\u00a0 Warranted?<\/span><\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I love all of them.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

There is also the occasional masterpiece like <\/span>this one here<\/span><\/a>:<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

The opening scene to ‘Breakin’ part 3… pic.twitter.com\/2WQyuu7z8L<\/a><\/p>\n\u2014 Fight Haven (@FightHaven) December 26, 2022<\/a><\/blockquote>\n