If I had to describe what postmodernism means to me, I would say it
is a big word used by arty-farty people who were too lazy to give their
creative work a clear-cut direction, but wanted to sound important
nonetheless. Postmodern writers usually employ devices like irony,
absurdity, dark humor, nonlinear timelines, incoherent English, and
anything else necessary to show the audience how much contempt they
really have for your expectations.
If you have no idea what I'm talking about, watch Pulp Fiction.
A
typical postmodern convention is to reject typical conventions. To confuse
people without providing explanation, just for the hell of it. Nothing
is what is seems, and the result is a combined emotion of isolation,
discontent, and uncertainty. You know, that feeling you get when you are
unable to form connections with people, or find any sort of meaning in
your life, or when the smartest guy in the room admits he never had a
clue what was going on in the first place.
It is the
reaction of an observer who has given up on trying to make sense of it
all, retreats to a safe corner, and watches everything around them with
bewildered amusement.
I never understood any of this
until I moved to Los Angeles. Now I totally get it. No other city that
I've been to captures that feeling of disjointedness quite so perfectly
as this one does. Many would argue that it's not even a real city; L.A.
covers more than 400 square miles and makes no attempt to unify its
residents. It's as if the original city planner lost the plans and said,
"Oh well, let's just wing it and see what happens." What we end up with
is a disorganized and fragmented mosaic of languages, architectural
styles, trendy subcultures, and varying levels of air quality, loosely held together by the nightmare that is our freeway and public transportation
system.
And let's not forget the bums. Oh, the bums. What would this city be without you.
People
leave their hometowns chasing after dreams that they expect to catch in
La-La Land. With a nickname like that, who wouldn't? You might have to work a minimum wage job to support yourself until your big break but hey, at least you get tips. So you hone your craft, show your stuff to anyone who will listen, date other wannabes, come home at night to your tiny but somehow overpriced studio apartment, eat ramen noodles for dinner, sink into your air mattress, and wait for tomorrow.
You might get a phone call from the person you want to hear from, but they never say what you want to hear. The project you were dying to work on got shelved. The hiring manager at your dream company decided to go with someone else. Your bookie survived the accident. Whatever. Eventually, you realize that the dreams you once
cherished about this city had long ago disappeared into the cracks of its poorly paved
roads. Turns out La-La Land was actually that crazy place inside your
head that convinced you to migrate west in the first place.
And
yet, in spite of all its obvious shortcomings, this sprawling
monstrosity in the middle of the desert still manages to draw people in
with its smarmy allure. It's true that L.A. offers beaches, fashion,
arts and entertainment, top colleges, career opportunities, even
religious asylum; but that feeling - that empty, confused, lost feeling -
will always pervade the air.
No one knows why.
That's when it hit me: there is no better definition for postmodernism than Los Angeles itself.
This
place doesn't feel like home to me, and it most likely never will. I
have been to major cities in countries where I didn't speak the language
and felt more at home than I do now. I've made lifelong connections
with people from all over the world, but I'm pretty sure that no
relationship formed within the L.A. city limits will last beyond my time
in L.A. That's just how it is, and you either learn to accept it or you
move somewhere else.
Or, you could do the postmodern
thing and write about how weird it feels to live here while you struggle
to make ends meet so you can continue to write about how weird it feels
to live here.
It may seem pointless to drag out my stay, but postmodernism isn't always about having a point. Besides, I believe in giving everyone and everything a fair shot, so I'm not leaving until I've been here for at least a year. What that really means is that I can't afford to buy out my one-year lease. At least I'll have plenty to write about in the meantime.
