My Thoughts on the Series Finale of House: A review

Last night’s series finale of House was a grossly entertaining storm of inner riddles and a bittersweet homage to our beloved and poignantly brutal, Dr. Gregory House. The title, “Everybody Dies” (clever tribute to the pilot episode, “Everybody Lies”) was a distracting and trying title that kept you wonderinghow they were going to end the series leading up to its climatic and hopelessly satirical titling.

The first 45 minutes of the episode showed a suicidal and guilt ridden House (on heroin), lying on the floor of a burning building and visited by ghostly apparitions of characters from past seasons. Kutner starts off the fuel, wondering out loud why House would want to kill himself in such an uninteresting way. House tells him his obvious reasons and Kutner concludes that while suicide is uninteresting, perhaps life has become meaningless to House. This was a bit out of character as we all know House would never end his life in such a cowardly way. But in retrospect, it also says a lot about House’s relationship to Wilson and the importance of their friendship that ultimately led him to that point, given his scientific belief that death is the ultimate nothingness, the true end. However, through the years of House’s character development, maybe he was always capable of being suicidal; we may never know.

 Kutner’s ghostly visage in the episode was a nice surprise (he killed himself in Season 5), but I was most excited to see House’s psyche-induced versions of Cameron, Thirteen and Amber “cutthroat bitch” talking to him about his “love for the puzzle” and admitting to his darkest flaws. Stacy shows up and tells House that he is capable of love and should not die. House seems ready to surrender to his plan by lying on the floor, drawing Stacy out. His subconscious brings Cameron to the forefront where he (as Cameron) tries to convince himself it is okay to give up and let go like Wilson did, “Just let go. Go to sleep” Cameron says. While House lies in the burning building, a House-like thought occurred to him and he did exactly what he does best –going the complete opposite of his innermost turmoil and instead makes a revelation and decides that yes, he can change.

Meanwhile, paralleling House is Wilson and Foreman who discovered House is missing and go on from clues in his apartment to try and locate him. Eventually those clues led them to an abandoned building and the smell of smoke is prevalent. They reach the building helplessly looking for a sign of House. As the firefighters make their way in, we see House behind the doors of the building. Wilson locks his eyes to the figure in the doorway and right before the confirmation was made, the building explodes. We assume House has died in the fire – as confirmed with authorities later on.

It was the last 10 minutes of the episode that made it all worthwhile. House has supposedly died in the fire with authorities confirming the body. During the funeral, Wilson’s tribute to House turned sour, calling him a bitter jerk who was so selfish he took his own life while drug induced and probably without a thought in mind. Right on cue, a cell phone planted in Wilson’s jacket rings and we see a text message that is obviously from House that reads: “SHUT UP YOU IDIOT.” The next scene Wilson finds House sitting in front of doorsteps, looking at him with a strange and lethargic smile on his face.

In a very Sherlock Holmes-esque way, House played the biggest prank on Wilson by ultimately faking his death. The body of a patient he was getting high with told House to do it. When asking why, the patient simply said “I have nothing else to lose”, and so the switch was made, dental records and all (of course). House escapes the fire from the back of the building, managing to make a clean run.

The scene closed with House and Wilson riding off into another road trip on their motorcycles. Wilson tries to tell House what to do when his cancer gets worse, but House’s last words uttered before the closing scene was: “Cancer is Boring.” Those last words, accompanied by the parting tune, “Enjoy Yourself: It’s Later than you Think” was a tasteful addition that spoke volumes as the cameras panned out.

All in all, the climatic end to the show’s 8 year run was hugely satisfying for me. It really gave me an appreciation to the satirical character that is House. Though obviously flawed, House is a compassionate and complex being that went to both ends of the extreme to find answers. And it is proven again one last time with Wilson by his side. House underwent his ultimate transformation, proving to us that this sacrifice is the most extreme one could ever amount to:  House, ready to be rid of his old life to see Wilson through the rest of his.

 As far as finales and go, the ending was perfect. It answered every bit of doubt that built up in the span of 8 years. He countered all of his demons, thoughts that led him to the one answer he could ever be sure about. To see House and Wilson together in the end was sweet and indulgent and a true testament to the very friendship that carried the series from the beginning.

Infinite Abyss

Sometimes I find myself floating on the edge of hysteria. Most of the time, i find that i want to be sucked in; to succumb to its darkness and give in to its forceful pull. But i don’t because the intruding inertia of self loathing is confusing, drowning, yet, strangely comforting - like a surprise visit from an old friend.

At some point in my life, I hope to be the greatest at something. I am marginally okay at a lot of things I teach myself, but there’s always that emptiness, the indescribable feeling of coming up short, never enough. Never good enough. 

I’ve always felt an ill-consuming indifference in my life though that is not say that I spend a majority of it complaining of such things. Much of my existence has been a good one; an acceptable, tolerable and fair one that I have come to understand. Though I think, curiously, in the back of my mind, this feels like settling. I don’t want to nor do I ever want to feel like “settling”.

I’m terrified that I will never be able to get passed these feelings of monumental doom, these inner demons I’m losing to. The feeling of darkness consuming my every thought. Never good enough. Never.

FyrDrakken: sailaweigh: “Dear Sir: I like words. I like fat buttery words, such as... →

“Dear Sir: I like words. I like fat buttery words, such as ooze, turpitude, glutinous, toady. I like solemn, angular, creaky words, such as straitlaced, cantankerous, pecunious, valedictory. I like spurious, black-is-white words, such as mortician, liquidate, tonsorial…

(Source: megangreenwell, via azryal00)

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I am walking around an art museum with a few friends, having a full on (probably rambunctious) dialogue. The crazy part is that what I was saying in the dream is something I’d never say in real life. Not that I wouldn’t say it, per se, but rather something I wouldn’t have said in a commonplace setting. I tried to think of exactly what I was saying at that moment but all mind can vaguely remember is the feeling of strangness. Language was less practical, more formal, exaggerated and a little more melodramatic than I’m used to.  The dialogue and the tone were engaging, in my mind at least, and, in some turn of event in my dream state, poetical and slightly clipped.

The Past and the Pending

As I sit in my childhood room, listening to the Shins and the sounds of my mother in the kitchen chopping veggies and rustling with pots, that I suddenly feel like I am 16 again. My closet still full of things I used to wear, my bookshelf stacked with banned books and memorabilia from a lifetime passed, with markings of my childhood slowly withering away with each glance. Momentary and fleeting. I can’t help but wonder how so much has changed in such a short period. It wasn’t long ago when I would lock myself in this same room, listening to the Shins and typing away on my laptop, circa 2002. 

There were many dilemmas back then, yes, superficial problems. First world issues, some would say. God, yes. Being 15 and ignorant, trying to feel something, exploring my sexuality, going through emotional phases and wondering just whatthehell I wanted out of my mundane existence. Reading back my childhood diary, my first real goal I made when I was 13 was to getthefuckout as soon as I could, far away as I can, away from the miseries of adolescence and growing up and teenage angst. Going far away seemed like a good idea, to explore the world, to see things that are meant to be interpreted for yourself. The idea of facing the world head-on and living day to day as if impatience was a virtue was sublime. Golden. It all seemed fairytale-like, unattainable even, growing up in a caged suburban community with fenced in walls and a bubble so small it could suck you in more when you tried to leave.

That was then. 

For now, I’m just appreciating the time I have right now before I have to head to the airport and catch my flight back to my current life. One that I can say has been a success of victories. My once unattainable dream not so unattainable anymore. I did it. With the good, with the bad, it is a history I can look back on and know how it became to be. How it was, how I am now and the uncertainty that lies ahead. 

Lost In a Maze of a Thousand Rainy Days

Writing is hard. No matter how many notes I write throughout the day, pictures snapped, excerpts of dialogue written on restaurant napkins - creativity is, as it always is for me, a fleeting experience of sensory integration. I can’t seem to exercise my vision for rhythmic creative writing.  

Perfection.

(Source: twopoint0h)