The Consolations of Buffylosophy
March 21, 2003 | 12:00am
Ruminants of a late-early twenty-something with nothing much to do. Since my final clash with university professors last November, I’ve left behind the wanks of academia only to join the ranks of the unemployed. It’s life imitating Reality Bites, and much time has been spent slumming in front of the TV with a bottle of red, as one often does. Yet television has been a source of some comfort in this time of personal desolation amidst worldwide dissolution. Not because I find sordid pleasure in Jerry Springer’s lowlifes, or escape reality and responsibility with another happy ending of Friends, but because I have spied some slivers of sense between news of imminent war and news of badly-behaving stars. Where, you may ask? The only show with witty banter and bite, Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
But first, a bathroom break: currently topping the charts of my boyfriend’s essential toilet reading is the Consolations of Philosophy by Alain de Botton. Easily digestible chunks of Western philosophy to facilitate one’s passage through life’s lower intestine. I sit there reading about how the works of Montaigne, Nietzsche and Schopenhauer are a balm for our ill but all-too-human feelings of frustration and inadequacy, and release a sigh of relief at knowing that greater minds have already mulled over such problems.
However, bathed in an atmosphere of uncertainty and sweaty war fever fuelled by incessant news reports, the teachings of fusty old scholars may seem a bit removed from the life of the average third millennium person caught somewhere between the profound ironies of what’s going on in the world, as much as the conflicting desire to eat less carbs  someone like myself I mean.
Can anything be said for the post-post-post modern cultural detritus we call popular entertainment? Is there anything redeeming on TV, that cold seducer of the masses as Jean Baudrillard calls it? I think there is, and as I’ve already mentioned, it’s delivered in my weekly dose of the stake-shoving, cross-referencing, genre-bending monster mash we all know and worship (the girls at least, said boyfriend is in abhorrence). The flying Internet rumor of the series’ imminent demise has me in conniptions, but they did have an amazing run, and we all have to grow up some day. So, in the vein of Monsieur de Botton but hopefully not in vain, here is a little something to take to the bathroom with you.
The consolations of Buffylosophy, or, how I learned to stop worrying and make love not war.
• Consolation for issues of personal identity. Iraqi refugees on temporary asylum visas here in Australia live under the stress of being deported back to their home country in the dubious (Dubya’s) event of peace. Similarly, my own visa status is on hold and I may very well be sent packing home to my mother if my application for permanence is denied. Although my mom is thankfully not as despotic as certain heads of state, this existential limbo, coupled with my inability to score even low-rent jobs despite my good grades and winning smile has put a downer on my days and a dent on my dividends. Everything that I’ve been classroom-taught is turning out to be well, useless and now I wish I had more foresight and taken up hairdressing. Consequently, I’d run through a few what-does-it-all-mean cycles and end up mostly with less answers but quite an impressive cork collection. Still, I try to remind myself: We are always becoming, becoming… (i.e. you are not the same person he/she fell in love with, but you can always be someone they love) and in that process of becoming we remake ourselves, finding the right angles in the play of shadow and light. So fine, I may not be doing what I imagined, and will probably not have 80 million dollars to space travel by the age of 26, but if I didn’t have rock faith in the possibility of the other then I wouldn’t be here, grasping at sands.
"A soul’s slippier than a greased weasel…well you probably thought that you’d be your own man and I respect that. But you never will," Spike, the platinum blond, Buffy-lusting broody vampire growls in a sexy pseudo-Brit accent. Spike has always been the most dynamic character because of the Clockwork Orange-ish V-chip battle between his demonic nature and a conditioned response to not harm innocents. In season 7 he regains his lost soul, much to his disappointment upon realizing that getting one’s soul back does not automatically qualify him as lovable, Buff-worthy or even human, but is rather only the beginning of a painful process of discovery and confrontation with the many contradictory selves we are made of. Spike struggles with the desire to be different from what was given, what was imposed on him from without, and this is the formation of a consciousness that includes other viewpoints, and a conscience that is driven by love n’ peace. Ultimately he should find meaning in his madness, as he muddles through the hundreds of years and voices that spam his head like a Hotmail inbox. Consolation for us? We are always unglued, becoming undone. Identity is never fixed but modulates as much as our taste in music, men and movies do. Everyday, we cast away another preconceived notion that might have been useful to begin with but not anymore, and in the constant process distill a singular essence of being within the slippiness of souls. And well, tomorrow is a brand new day. I’ll start looking for work tomorrow.
• Consolation for moral ambiguity. "Nothing’s ever simple anymore. I’m constantly trying to work it out who to love or hate, who to trust. It’s just like, the more I know, the more confused I get." Buffy goes to college and waxes philosophical as she has illicit affairs with soulful vampires and encounters with baddies who aren’t necessarily so. The distinctions are less clear, for example, does she vanquish Native American tribal ghosts who were only trying to avenge the wrongs they’ve been done? Do we fight terror with terror, is retribution ever just, how do we end the cycle of violence?
Etc.
At the anti-war protest rally a few weeks ago, around 50,000 Sydneysiders strolled the streets chanting no to war on Iraq, slagging Bush, Howard and Blair as the axis of evil. Creatively babaw signs saying "fush buck!" or "make pizza not war" made me feel like I was back at an EDSA rally. There seemed to be a general understanding that bombs over Baghdad mean blood for oil, and that in Bush country intelligent reason does not prevail. However the runaway sentiments tended to overlook the fact that Saddam was still one of the biggest bads, and a lot of anger flew around like misguided missiles. But the more I know, the more confused I get. It was a majorly unfortunate web of events that put someone like Bush in the position to unilaterally monger war in the name of other things. I suppose war is inevitable, either way, neither simply good nor bad but a shade sinister of gray.
• Consolation for unemployment. Buffy never got to finish college because her slayage duties prevented her from late-night cramming for exams. She tried her hand as a burger flipper but proved to be only skilled with stakes. She ends up back at high school, moonlighting as guidance counselor while she keeps Hellmouth in check. Surely this indicates that there is something for everyone out there, and lucky are the few who do find their niche early in life without ever having to say, "I was young and needed the money!" I once worried about not having an impressive answer for people at cocktail parties who’d ask the inevitable, "So, what do you want to do?" But I don’t worry about that anymore (a friend was kind enough to lend me one of his responses: "I wanna be spiritual!"). I figure that direction will emerge in its own good time. Buffy says, the hardest thing in the world is living in it. But despite it all, tranquility or turmoil, I’ve actually got everything I need to be happy, and it’s loaded in every present, unfolding moment.
But first, a bathroom break: currently topping the charts of my boyfriend’s essential toilet reading is the Consolations of Philosophy by Alain de Botton. Easily digestible chunks of Western philosophy to facilitate one’s passage through life’s lower intestine. I sit there reading about how the works of Montaigne, Nietzsche and Schopenhauer are a balm for our ill but all-too-human feelings of frustration and inadequacy, and release a sigh of relief at knowing that greater minds have already mulled over such problems.
However, bathed in an atmosphere of uncertainty and sweaty war fever fuelled by incessant news reports, the teachings of fusty old scholars may seem a bit removed from the life of the average third millennium person caught somewhere between the profound ironies of what’s going on in the world, as much as the conflicting desire to eat less carbs  someone like myself I mean.
Can anything be said for the post-post-post modern cultural detritus we call popular entertainment? Is there anything redeeming on TV, that cold seducer of the masses as Jean Baudrillard calls it? I think there is, and as I’ve already mentioned, it’s delivered in my weekly dose of the stake-shoving, cross-referencing, genre-bending monster mash we all know and worship (the girls at least, said boyfriend is in abhorrence). The flying Internet rumor of the series’ imminent demise has me in conniptions, but they did have an amazing run, and we all have to grow up some day. So, in the vein of Monsieur de Botton but hopefully not in vain, here is a little something to take to the bathroom with you.
The consolations of Buffylosophy, or, how I learned to stop worrying and make love not war.
• Consolation for issues of personal identity. Iraqi refugees on temporary asylum visas here in Australia live under the stress of being deported back to their home country in the dubious (Dubya’s) event of peace. Similarly, my own visa status is on hold and I may very well be sent packing home to my mother if my application for permanence is denied. Although my mom is thankfully not as despotic as certain heads of state, this existential limbo, coupled with my inability to score even low-rent jobs despite my good grades and winning smile has put a downer on my days and a dent on my dividends. Everything that I’ve been classroom-taught is turning out to be well, useless and now I wish I had more foresight and taken up hairdressing. Consequently, I’d run through a few what-does-it-all-mean cycles and end up mostly with less answers but quite an impressive cork collection. Still, I try to remind myself: We are always becoming, becoming… (i.e. you are not the same person he/she fell in love with, but you can always be someone they love) and in that process of becoming we remake ourselves, finding the right angles in the play of shadow and light. So fine, I may not be doing what I imagined, and will probably not have 80 million dollars to space travel by the age of 26, but if I didn’t have rock faith in the possibility of the other then I wouldn’t be here, grasping at sands.
"A soul’s slippier than a greased weasel…well you probably thought that you’d be your own man and I respect that. But you never will," Spike, the platinum blond, Buffy-lusting broody vampire growls in a sexy pseudo-Brit accent. Spike has always been the most dynamic character because of the Clockwork Orange-ish V-chip battle between his demonic nature and a conditioned response to not harm innocents. In season 7 he regains his lost soul, much to his disappointment upon realizing that getting one’s soul back does not automatically qualify him as lovable, Buff-worthy or even human, but is rather only the beginning of a painful process of discovery and confrontation with the many contradictory selves we are made of. Spike struggles with the desire to be different from what was given, what was imposed on him from without, and this is the formation of a consciousness that includes other viewpoints, and a conscience that is driven by love n’ peace. Ultimately he should find meaning in his madness, as he muddles through the hundreds of years and voices that spam his head like a Hotmail inbox. Consolation for us? We are always unglued, becoming undone. Identity is never fixed but modulates as much as our taste in music, men and movies do. Everyday, we cast away another preconceived notion that might have been useful to begin with but not anymore, and in the constant process distill a singular essence of being within the slippiness of souls. And well, tomorrow is a brand new day. I’ll start looking for work tomorrow.
• Consolation for moral ambiguity. "Nothing’s ever simple anymore. I’m constantly trying to work it out who to love or hate, who to trust. It’s just like, the more I know, the more confused I get." Buffy goes to college and waxes philosophical as she has illicit affairs with soulful vampires and encounters with baddies who aren’t necessarily so. The distinctions are less clear, for example, does she vanquish Native American tribal ghosts who were only trying to avenge the wrongs they’ve been done? Do we fight terror with terror, is retribution ever just, how do we end the cycle of violence?
Etc.
At the anti-war protest rally a few weeks ago, around 50,000 Sydneysiders strolled the streets chanting no to war on Iraq, slagging Bush, Howard and Blair as the axis of evil. Creatively babaw signs saying "fush buck!" or "make pizza not war" made me feel like I was back at an EDSA rally. There seemed to be a general understanding that bombs over Baghdad mean blood for oil, and that in Bush country intelligent reason does not prevail. However the runaway sentiments tended to overlook the fact that Saddam was still one of the biggest bads, and a lot of anger flew around like misguided missiles. But the more I know, the more confused I get. It was a majorly unfortunate web of events that put someone like Bush in the position to unilaterally monger war in the name of other things. I suppose war is inevitable, either way, neither simply good nor bad but a shade sinister of gray.
• Consolation for unemployment. Buffy never got to finish college because her slayage duties prevented her from late-night cramming for exams. She tried her hand as a burger flipper but proved to be only skilled with stakes. She ends up back at high school, moonlighting as guidance counselor while she keeps Hellmouth in check. Surely this indicates that there is something for everyone out there, and lucky are the few who do find their niche early in life without ever having to say, "I was young and needed the money!" I once worried about not having an impressive answer for people at cocktail parties who’d ask the inevitable, "So, what do you want to do?" But I don’t worry about that anymore (a friend was kind enough to lend me one of his responses: "I wanna be spiritual!"). I figure that direction will emerge in its own good time. Buffy says, the hardest thing in the world is living in it. But despite it all, tranquility or turmoil, I’ve actually got everything I need to be happy, and it’s loaded in every present, unfolding moment.
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