“If we believe in nothing, if nothing has any meaning and if we can affirm no values whatsoever, then everything is possible and nothing has any importance.”― Albert Camus, The Rebel
In 2001, I saw God, which is to say, I saw nothing. I was depressed about everything. Leaving the bubble to enter college- even though I thought I was open-minded - the deluge of responsibilities and possibilities for the rest of my foreseeable future hit me like a fucking brick wall.
Emotionally spent and at the point of literally laying down to die, I stuck myself in a closet, completely vision-denied. Pink Floyd’s “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” worked as a mantra. Ritualistic phrases and orthodox adherence to a set mantra and style of meditation had not yielded results for me at that point, but the music allowed me to fixate enough on something else (actually depriving my sense of hearing of any intrusions) to let the mind wander inward. I saw nothing but darkness. And still I saw potential - the becoming. Coming out of my state, I laughed at how absolutely absurd life is. Everything we do or say we live for. Fabrications upon fabrications. We are nothing, and in that, everything.
The days - nearly two decades - since that experience have been a continual struggle in some ways. It’s a trouble I chose though, once I was able to fully comprehend the gravity of non-being. I totally understand the evangelical mindset because I feel saved too. In my case, saved of any hope there’s some answer out there at all. Or perhaps the answer is completely irrelevant because it’ll never be confirmed by some official authority or understandable to me. It’s a faith in the unknowing. An acceptance of complete lack of control.
That realization made me simpler in some way. There’s a connection with the very nature of my existence that I cannot sever. The nature of my reality revealed itself to me in a wholly physical realm. So unlike the evangelicals, I believe the soul is the fleeting aspect. The body is the eternal, as it recycles into billions upon billions of atoms and reforms in myriad fashion. Stardust - algae - ferns - trees- ammonites - trilobites - and so on and so on all the way to - humans. The ego can’t bear to reconcile this fact. Everything about our society reinforces our tendency to want to escape our impermanence. However, once you see through the veil, it’s a game changer, and a relief.
"Before his eyes in sudden view appear The secrets of the hoary Deep - a dark Illimitable ocean, without bound, Without dimension...." - John Milton, Paradise Lost I’m a virgo. Your eyes just rolled. It’s fine. I roll my eyes when someone tells me their star sign too. How bizarre to think the solar/planet alignment, time, season of your gestation and date/time of your initial entry into this world has any effect on how your genes express themselves or what your personality will be like. There's something about astrology that I can't dismiss entirely though -a systematized understanding of ourselves in a time before enough technological advances existed to deeply answer those questions of why we exist and are the way that we are. Religion is an example of that as well, when discussing the mysticism aspect of any faith. The hardcore adherence to orthodoxy is too clean cut, too much like an assembly guide to ever appeal to me. Not to say no rules, total chaos is key, Because that is a poor response to the question of why we're here too. It's lazy in a different way from following a litany of rules and checking endless boxes toward success - that isn't life as much as it is a really by-the-book sheet cake.
Personally, I’m not an anti-free will kinda gal, but the lengths to which the believers of human exceptionalism chalk any of our species’ advancements up to our own stolid self-determination and autonomy is directly proportional to the degree to which they’re a tool. We have free will, or at least the perception of having free will enough to concede that everything is not wholly deterministic. However, there are so many variables in the environment around us. It’s not so out of this world to believe that maybe celestial forces, even large scale, can somehow impact individual beings. Humans can explain a lot about the natural world, and in great detail. Unfortunately, even our most detailed responses to the metaphysical questions of 'why?' fall short. As an atheist, I find it amusing when I come to such seemingly un-atheistic conclusions. What I am objecting to in most religious dogma is the simplification and anthropocentric conceptions of the unknown. I detest an explanation that is specifically packaged to "make sense to me" as a human. The world/universe does not make sense in any widely understandable way that humans could ever be expected to grasp. That does not mean curiosity should be quashed and explanations not pursued. It does mean that spending a lot of time building up the rules of engagement based on those discoveries only serve to oppress and confuse.
For a long time, probably a good decade, I lived in a space of being a simulation of myself. A projection of what I wanted to be seen as out in the world. It affected choices I made on very personal levels. Throughout high school, I spent a lot of time by myself because it was easier than pretending to be something I was not. And even though authenticity has always been a core value, there’s something that was inauthentic in me from ages 19 to about 30. The obsession to be in control over all aspects of my life made it difficult for me to recognize my own self worth, which was inclusive of imperfections that were interpreted as fatal flaws, making me unworthy of love. It led me down roads of controlling my weight to unhealthy extremes, making “rational” choices over intuitive ones and leaving me, at 37, wondering what the fuck I was thinking. After having a child and just learning to accept myself more readily, my life has felt fuller and more meaningful. Yes, because of her presence in this world as a little being making her way, but also due to the immediate connection with the more animalistic nature of one’s self that was laid bare during pregnancy and childbirth itself. There’s no pulling punches that you’re an animal in the throes of childbirth. Control floats away - there’s less ability to keep up the facade of human society. Through trial and error I have come to see there's a beauty in putting oneself out there. A beauty that is missing when one never moves beyond the tight, controlled circle. Hermetically sealed perfection isn't life in the end. It's a performative exercise that limits human capacity for creativity and an understanding of truth. Ultimately, I have begun to advocate for an anarchism of the soul. Such a belief would allow for exploration of our "selves" as both an individual and a species. Self-discovery, self-empowerment and trust in the intuitive core of the self would come to be essential to life. As an acolyte of soul-anarchism, one would need to balance utilizing the abilities and skills within us to express what it is to be human. We have become so enamored with the capacity of our own minds to create and expand our boundaries that we're literally killing our planet to prove how advanced we are; not to mention the hubris we have to think we can bring our planet back from the brink. There is no "bringing it back" because we don't actually have control over forces way larger than ourselves. The most we can hope for is the ability to experience the now that is here for us, but within that, to realize that if we act solely with hedonistic, narcissistic abandon, we actually work against our own survival.
“Americans no longer talk to each other, they entertain each other. They do not exchange ideas, they exchange images. They do not argue with propositions; they argue with good looks, celebrities and commercials.”― Neil Postman, Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business
Strange as it may seems if you've heard me talk about the comfort of anonymity and my desire to live on a mountaintop far, far away from people, I'm a conversationalist at heart. This paradoxical identity as both someone who wants to be a faceless body on the crowded streets of New York and the only face you're actually focused on while engaged in conversation is embodied within me. It's probably why my dream is to just be able to read all day long - a conversation with someone that isn't there, but that can be accessed as easily as flipping open a page. But truly, I do enjoy unadulterated conversations with the people I feel comfortable enough to reveal more personal details about myself, and most importantly, with people who are actively listening. Being able to express whatever pops into my head without self-censorship births flow and I'm willing to ride it out until the end, even if it means being vulnerable. In the barest way, my desire is to be able to think aloud and express myself without encountering judgment.
As much as I hate being at work sometimes, it helps me think so much more than being at home. Yet, there is no denying the need for a two month break after the intense intellectual stimulation of being a public school teacher for ten months every year [...that's what's wrong with every other profession in America - there's not enough meaningful time off. Everyone's annoyed at teachers for having the time we do in the summer. And to everyone I say - the answer isn't to take it away from us, it's to get it for yourselves, too]. Besides dealing with pedagogy, each day I take on the responsibility of 100's of someone else's children - teaching them subject content, yes, but also life skills and on top of that, keeping them safe. I don't take any of that lightly.
There are a lot of jobs that can be broken down like I just did to teaching -especially in ways that make them sound heroic and deserving of praise. But that's not actually what I was trying to elicit from the reader here. There's no need to praise me for choosing a job that I enjoy doing. The point is that humans themselves are amazing and capable beings, and we all express our capabilities differently. Unfortunately, as a society, we tend to oppress the shit out of each other through societal norms. Completely abstract notions of what is "good"and "valuable" replace what is good and valuable for thriving as a living being in this world. The ol' Protestant work ethic should have withered away long ago, because it's neither relevant in a society where we could begin automating so many menial tasks nor in one where if wealth was (re)distributed more evenly, it would erase the need for such an endlessly demanding stream of "productiveness" from everyone. Productive by whose standards? Is sitting at a desk crunching numbers more productive and valuable to society than digging trenches for water pipes? Clearly not, but we've abstracted worth and meaning to support intellectual tasks so much more so than physical ones. Teaching is one of those unusual professions that straddle a line - there's a huge intellectual component and on the other hand, this wholly practical one of being a member of a community that contributes to the raising of children. And that practical side has led teachers to be set apart from other educated professionals, as a "lesser" sort. Plus, the preponderance of women in the profession - 77% female in public schools nationwide - adds an additional layer of disregard in a patriarchy [Ooh, yes, the United States is indeed still a patriarchy - there are obvious improvements to conditions women experience on a whole, but let's not live in a world where we see those successes and hang up our picket signs for good. Women's success is still measured by how well she fits into a man's world].
As a teacher, ultimatelywhat I want to cultivate for those present in my room is the space to explore thoughts without ridicule. If I ever do leave teaching, it's the access to so many conversations that I will miss most. Each school year, each class, each student, is an opportunity for a new relationship, and therefore, a new conversation. On top of that, as a history teacher, I want students to be in discussion with the past because not only does it make it more personal, but it could help people feel more invested in participating in the dialogue of society and politics. If they can leave my room with the understanding that there is more to explore on any front, I'd chalk it up to a win.
I like the Vedic idea of all being one - as all literally made up of the same material and living in the same physical realm. It's comforting, ego-effacing and a pleasant sort of nihilism. Eventually, one will come to know that through an epiphany, an enlightening moment or just upon one's own death (...or so I hope, anyway). Generally, our consciousness provides an opposing sentiment - that we're all unique and different and, somehow, in competition for resources. As if only one of us surviving makes the world more livable. With an attitude like that, we get the mess we're in politically, socially and environmentally now. Over-stuffing and trashing a planet that clearly is as much alive as its inhabitants; a biome for this entire universal experiment of carbon-based lifeforms that sparked out of proteins dancing in electrified water. Aqua vitae, quite literally.
Somehow, by evolving to a point of not only being capably aware enough to recognize that we're "blessed" (inexplicably) to be here, we've also evolved the ability to actively disown that truth in pursuit something beyond it. No matter the gain of knowledge, if it kills all life, why continue in this pursuit? Isn't that the moral of Adam and Eve? Not necessarily that knowledge is power and God arbitrarily wields it, but that seeking forbidden knowledge is detrimental and dangerous to life. Knowing becomes an addiction. Quitting Facebook means I view a lot less "news" (which are really morsels of information) . But I realized that "knowing" more in the way of constant exposure leaves little time to actually reflect and think deeply. My attention was simply a commodity for advertisers - their interest never lies in the relevance, importance or truthfulness of the information. The more I had looked, clicked, and commented, the more my time had been exploited. And, not for love- as in the all-encompassing attention a newborn child might need, for example- but for someone else's profits. In such a search for knowledge, one engages endlessly, because there is no end. At least not for human beings and our limited capacity to remember everything we encounter. Leave the notion that you're a living bag of guts for too long and the mind begins to play tricks on you - like, "Hey, you don't need the body. The mind is all there is." When in fact, it's very not the case. There's an alienation, a hollowness, without something physical, material, to bring you back to a grounded sense of self. This can also explain why experiencing pain is a grounding moment. There's a visceral wrongness that hits you as all other concerns are pushed aside - no more "to-do" lists or preoccupations about decorum. There is nothing else but pain and (possibly) a desire to end it. There's a feeling of helplessness and vulnerability that penetrates the mind. Anyone with mental illness also experiences this physical pain within the mind as well, which is what I think those who have not endured depression or anxiety have no perspective on. Even though your mind may look to find an "out" or a way to control a painful event, sometimes the realization occurs that there is none. In those moments, there's no escaping the thought that, "Oh yes, I am a mortal that's destructible."
To expand on this, I like "psychological horror" writer HP Lovecraft's works for the reason that knowledge, in his stories, represents the ultimate danger. If his stories hit you right, you experience what his narrators do -a protagonist comes across some arcane knowledge that's absolutely horrific in nature. Despite being exposed to this information, he is completely helpless to prevent humanity from being destroyed and, thusly, either sequesters himself or is driven mad by the end of the tale. Impotent in the face of such psychic trauma, the protagonist slips into a depth of despair nothing in life has ever prepared them for. Somehow, understanding too much has its consequences too. Perhaps, for our overall survival of our species, there needs to be an acceptance of an unknown.
I fall back on musical analogies a lot because, despite being a poor talent myself, years of listening to music has left me with a deep appreciation for this form of expression. I feel music - physically feel it. There’s a need for music to produce a positive visceral reaction for me to truly be into it. If there’s only aural engagement, it will never have the same impact. I appreciates good storytelling; many bands I am into have lyrics which are thoughtful/thought-provoking. But that storytelling must extend into the music for me too. I know different people’s tastes lead them to have this sort of reaction about music that, personally, I could never get into, but I respect their feelings for whatever rocks their socks. Unsurprisingly, I tend to fall in love with people who appreciate music. Could be romantically, but also platonically. If someone can open their anthropocentric mind to a language that’s older than human speech - melody -it's likely we can have a healthy conversation about music whether or not our tastes coincide. And if someone can start with opening themselves up to artistic expression, there's a flexing of an ability to transcend one's own consciousness and even, potentially, species-ness. It's humbling if one becomes vulnerable enough to allow themselves to just be a vessel of acceptance for experience.
“You who live safe In your warm houses, You who find warm food And friendly faces when you return home. Consider if this is a man Who works in mud, Who knows no peace, Who fights for a crust of bread, Who dies by a yes or no. Consider if this is a woman Without hair, without name, Without the strength to remember, Empty are her eyes, cold her womb, Like a frog in winter. Never forget that this has happened. Remember these words. Engrave them in your hearts, When at home or in the street, When lying down, when getting up. Repeat them to your children. Or may your houses be destroyed, May illness strike you down, May your offspring turn their faces from you.”
-Shema, Primo Levi
I don't get how you explain poetry to people. Honestly, I think it's either you get it or you don't. Some poet, some verse may awaken your poetry sense one day. As an example, apart from Shakespeare, the poems we studied in high school English classes were stodgy and unappealing - definitely didn't awaken a sense of purpose, passion or desire to read more. The verses we read in Spanish literature class, however, were alive and it was through those pieces that poetry became something worth paying attention to for me. Many of the poets/poems I enjoy are impressionistic, haunting and not fully explicable. One of the most powerful things about the above poem (for me) is the emphasis on the importance of history- our collective, organized (and mutable) memory. Because what are we, without the story that comes before? And in which, despite trying not to, your mind tries to sort out winners and losers. Though it can't stop there - human conflict isn't a fair fight situation. So we have to study history to see what limitations and advantages people, nations and civilizations have had. Monday Morning Quarterbacking the hell out of history isn't a bad thing per say - it's more than we can do that and learn something without lording over a previous decade morally. Morals aren't REAL - they're reflections of a time and an understanding of things. Which is to say, subject to changing or dying or both. Despite being Levi's poem being one that (very nearly) condemns those who would forget the historical record - the abject horrors humans inflict on humans, it's also one that brims with contempt for those who do not live their lives fully. Those who hide away within their own illusions of safety. Who think their day will never come, or is so far off and remote a possibility as to not be real at all. Either through privilege of ignorance or anxiety, that has built a wall. Racism represents that security, so does patriarchy. Heterosexuality. Monogamy. Religiosity. It's only when you're outside the norm of a society or people that you see the rigidity that leads to those compartments, those boxes. The thing that separates us from other animals is that we ARE able to compartmentalize and categorize, which is necessary for certain types of higher-order thinking like math or science-based, but not more artistic pursuits. These aren't mutually exclusive, but the precision of art isn't always what makes it likable. Sometimes dissonance and confusion make the enjoyable enjoyable. For the audiophiles, it's the difference between pop music and genres that are more accessible or raw or authentic (or whatever the fuck is diametrically opposed to pop music). Remember the first time you heard some song that blew your mind in multiple categories - structure, experimentation, skill, concept. Personally, and despite it not being my favorite genre, it'd likely be a song by a "progressive rock" band - maybe a song that even pushed the limits for that particular band. New vocal stylings? New time signatures? Unusual instrumentation?What am I lIsTeNiNg to? Yes, please show me you've grown. Don't give me the same shit you've been giving me for years (*ahem*Tool*ahem*). More. You've evolved, no? Or, or shit, is it money...finally? Money is what is keeping you from actually producing a work that'll get you mixed reviews, or some eyebrows. But whatever, artists as people who were once on the edge of discovery of self and life, sometimes settle too far into that moment discovery of self and life. Visually, take examples like Hieronymus Bosch or Basquiat. The most technically proficient? Hardly. The most realistic? Decidedly not. But creativity? Authenticity? Surely. There's a life in their authenticity that isn't readily available in the manufactured pieces of art you can buy at Kohl's emblazoned with "Live.Laugh.Love" (not that I find them to be morally reprehensible, but there's a lack to that "art"). Over 100 years ago, at the precipice of the explosion of the modern world, Nietzsche opined that the era in which he lived was abound with the "men of science" and that his generation had killed God and spirituality. In 2019, what would he think of the "modern man" that inhabits the western liberal societies that have dominated geopolitics and culture for nearly thirty years? At first glance, despite any trends on attendance at religious services or general beliefs in the existence of angels, god(s) or any inexplicable, supernatural beings or events, this era is also marked by "men of science" that believe in their own abilities above all else. The difference now is that the influential few - the Zuckerbergs, Gateses, Bezoses, et al - have completely reshaped human interactions and redefined individual expression to prioritize consumption for their own ends of monetary gain and social influence (aka power). Our personal profiles on social media and our ever-increasing dependence on a device for acquiring information, communication, transportation, therapy, healthcare, distraction, entertainment, validation, connection ,etc has fundamentally altered human social interaction. When we break down these advancements in technology, its infiltration into our lives and its inexplicable link to someone else's capital, it's important to continue to ask ourselves, is there a unifying underpinning for humanity? The answer is still yes. Evolutionary developments cannot be obliterated in such a short span of time as the duration of one generation. Babies are hardwired in the same ways they were since humans lived in nomadic clusters without so much as codified language. However, it is also beneficial to realize that you, too, as an adult, are hardwired in the same basic was as those first humans. Why is that a beneficial realization? Because it is freeing you, any of us from, the trappings of modern life and any particular expectations for what is "right" and acceptable behaviorally and intellectually. To consistently go against our own general nature biologically, to be unable to express what's written in our genetic code and shaped through our experiences is stifling and anxiety-provoking. This is not a plea for the recognition of only two biological sexes and subsequently two genders, or for a particular expression of sexuality. Quote the contrary. What's missed by gender essentialists and anyone who's arguing for "hard" definitions to what's appropriate expression of self is that genetics lays out a framework, a scaffolding, a skeletal structure. Nurture and experience flesh out that structure; even people with very similar and even identical genetic codes will have had enough of a degree of differentiations in their experienced life that their expression of self will reflect those differences. The certainty of science from 100 years ago or even 10 for that matter show us the dangers of the hard answer. Science shouldn't not be trusted, obviously, but it should be something that is not held up as an unchangeable and unchallengeable standard And thusly, to really dumb down the poetic interpretation process to just me, "spit-ballin' ideas about life," the literary output of an Auschwitz survivor is one that reminds us to actually live. Because what the fuck else is there? Recently, I came to the realization that hating myself is also part of that certainty I am railing against. I knew that logically for some time, but only have been able to understand that on any real psycho-emotional level now. It's difficult to relay to others what it feels like to dislike oneself so completely as to want to waste away and become nothing. The belief that it'd be easier for me to allow myself to be completely consumed with the idea of being cosmic energy until it kills me than to actually harness that energy to experience something. So I get when someone like Levi lives through horror, produces a volume of artistic expression and still finds himself being crushed under the weight of existence. However, like Camus, my belief is that suicide will only negate and not solve the problem. Solely through observation, consciousness only comes once in this particular figuration and to experience what I can when I can means to be free enough to make decisions, mistakes, to learn and ultimately, evolve. "Alas, the time is coming when man will no longer give birth to a star. Alas, the time of the most despicable man is coming, he that is no longer able to despise himself. Behold, I show you the last man. 'What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?' thus asks the last man, and blinks. The earth has become small, and on it hops the last man, who makes everything small. His race is as ineradicable as the flea; the last man lives longest. 'We have invented happiness,'say the last men, and they blink. They have left the regions where it was hard to live, for one needs warmth. One still loves one's neighbor and rubs against him, for one needs warmth...No shepherd and one herd! Everybody wants the same, everybody is the same: whoever feels different goes voluntarily into a madhouse. 'Formerly, all the world was mad,' say the most refined, and they blink... One has one's little pleasure for the day and one's little pleasure for the night: but one has a regard for health. 'We have invented happiness,' say the last men, and they blink." - Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra
“So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned by a life of security, conformity, and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure.” ― Alexander Supertramp (Chris McCandless)
I would consider myself a flight risk. Not for any crime-related reasons, but from society. This is something I have written about before - the desire to just get in the car and drive away into the sunset, never looking back....Alexandria Supertramping this nonsense we call "modern living." But I have a child and a family and financial obligations, so it's likely too late in the game for me to really get away from the trappings of what I find stifling about the "norms" of life. To quell that desire to ascend up a mountain and become the ultimate introvert, I read or write. I never wanted to be a writer - the desire to write is more of an exercise in exorcising my mind of thoughts and feelings that plague it. It helps because I have some difficulty expressing my emotions to someone face to face - partially it's my temperament as being someone who's a bit more reserved but there's also a fear (...of rejection or embarrassment) that makes me clam up in regards to oral, face-to-face expression. When I do have the ability to express myself in writing, the thoughts and emotions that flow from me are very honest. There's a degree of vulnerability that does not always come through in person.
Thus, in my compulsion to write and purge, therein lies a limitation and a pattern of being unable to write fiction. The labels of "embellished narrative" or "gonzo" - however fictional they may seem - reflect whatever it is you'd call these pieces on my blog. The "narrative" style of my thoughts have occurred since I can remember - through play with toys when very young or idle contemplation about my surroundings, the world and my place in them. In high school, outside of school or work, I spent a lot of time alone. When my students today ask me whether or not I partied, was wild, etc, and I simply laugh. The hours in which I could have been loitering at the mall or drinking in the woods or whatever was popular teen culture in the late 90s were instead spent in my room. We didn't have a computer in my house until I was a junior in high school, and even then, it was still a tool primarily used for typing rather than distraction. Most of my formative years were spent being with myself for long stretches of time -listening to music, drawing, studying. My inner self is rich with desires and curiosity about the world around. So it would seem as though a degree of that would be satiated by interacting with the outside world, and especially with other people. Yet, paradoxically, as someone who takes a long time to ever become "real" with someone else, any sort of shared experience looms much larger in my memory bank than theirs likely. Whether positive or negative, its impact seems to hit me harder than it would others.
Locations are easier for me to be "real" with, however. Exploring a new area stimulates the mind without the same degree of socio-emotional investment that I sometimes find to be scary. There are a few places I've become completely fascinated by how old they are. Like Florence, Italy - OLD. Rome - OLDER. Oldest fucking place I have even been. That oldness is something Americans shy away from. American culture blows when it comes to preservation. I don't mean keeping the shitty aspects of days gone by - like racism and misogyny. Rather I am referring to the passing down of a recipe or a holiday tradition- something that makes your family unique, discernible and perhaps, compared to wider American culture, folksy. But those sorts of practices are, to an extent, shameful, shunned in this country. I'm not trying to placate conservatives here either; there are benefits to having a history, maintaining tradition and recognizing the importance of identity as part of a lineage, but only if it can evolve. That's the key - the evolution of that identity. Allowing something to be non-exclusionary and open, but still retaining a thread of what came before. It's the attitude -that's what makes people, things, practices, last. When attitudes include a nod to the past but an acceptance of the future, well, then why not? New is marketed as better, but is that true or does it reflect a marketing scheme more than a necessity? Progress-minded people aren't always progressively-minded people. That is to say (beyond any political terminology that might have just been activated in the reader's mind by the previous sentence), a progress-minded person is interested in moving on, getting to an end point. A progressively-minded person is interested in the development of something as much as more even more than the end point. To make a musical analogy, playing a number of chords in a practice set achieves the goal of having gained finger dexterity or speed whereas a pleasing chord progression takes you on a sonic journey.
On a wider, more metaphysical level, the topic of maintaining a piece of the past and its role in the present and beyond opens up ideas surrounding what it means "to be." The human conception of “being” is one of consciousness and yes, technically that is also included in the “being” I’m referencing. But for me, that’s one small aspect of the full extent of “being” as I refer. That “being” encompasses all and any degree of consciousness, but also all that is not directly revealed to our minds. We are the universe in some material configuration that connects with and interacts with other material configurations. Though separate, we come together to produce more of each other – literally grown out of each other’s cells. And yet, I have to consistently explain that we are truly not separate in any real or long-term sense – clearly we’re all made of the same building blocks – which goes through all humans as well as literally any other carbon-based life-form and the surrounding environment. When we don’t exist in these current manifestations with (seemingly) separate consciousnesses, it also doesn’t mean we don’t exist on other material levels. Whether a plastic bag that will take 10,000 years to disintegrate or the average human that’ll be dust in a century or two, there are a finite number of possibilities for configuration. That should not be taken as: come into consciousness, fuck shit up and destroy the ride, but rather, enjoy the ride so that others can too. From an empathetic perspective, imagine having to wait until you get to experience some consciousness again – maybe never – do you want to leave everything a damn mess so that someone else who has one shot to drink clean water and eat fresh fruit has to instead pick through a wasteland of nuclear detritus just because you couldn’t turn lights off when you left a room? The universe is so vast, one may be the only time around.
When I think about how that could be translated into a livable system,that's where I get both super hopeful and existentially depressed all at once. When I am explaining for the fiftieth time that no, I don't think any one person should have the right, regardless of ability, to accrue as much as possible while any one other person has nothing to eat, the mountain hermit retreat begins to call to me in my mind. At this point, we’re advanced enough to automate most of our needs and we literally have stockpiles of shit in warehouses to last us generations, but if and only if everyone is willing to wear trends from 20 years ago so we can finally get rid of all of those fucking pairs of JNCO jeans.
"It is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence — that which makes its truth, its meaning — its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream — alone…" - Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
I don't sleep well - or a lot? It's a toss up of which on whatever night. Every morning is particularly painful because I just want to fucking sleep, but never can. Either I can't logistically (hello, very awake small child) or emotionally (which is to say there's a nagging feeling that, "I'll sleep when I die," when I lay in bed). It's a sort of "fomo" - fear of missing out - though it's more of a "fear of missing life," however mundane that life may actually be. Because I like living, but I am wracked with anxiety about actually living. Living/existence is hard when you're fully conscious of the fact you're mortal. In fact, I really understand the whole, "eternal life- Jesus Saves!" sort of mentality, but I'm too cynical to commit to believing wholeheartedly in anything of the sort.
There are certain people we come across in our lives that serve a purpose of "seeing us." Simply offering corroborating evidence that another living-breathing-thinking-feeling human being acknowledges our existence. Sometimes that "bearing witness" plays role in saving our lives, too. And I don't necessarily mean that in a literal sense per say, although it can most definitely be the case. In moments of great stressors, in times of anguish, a nod toward another person can mean much more than either could imagine, which is why the meme "check on your friends, even the happy ones," get shared so often in social media spaces.
So it's rate and odd and special when I share moments of total, "we're fucked" mentality on even a low key level with another person. It's like a mutual nod to the fact that we're gonna be dead at some point - and it's normal and OK, but still absolutely terrifying on some level (tangentially, this is also how I view "loud" music, as in live or at least a fully immersive headphones experience. There's a degree of terror in being subsumed into the vibrations, but also a massive release of control- kinda sexual. Which, I suppose, music is for many. Repetitive, undulating, throbbing. All ways I'd describe the rhythm sections of my favorite bands, and also a pleasurable sexual experience ;) ) . So when I meet people that I feel have the same insight into life, appreciate gallows' humor, and maybe even share that feeling like they're barely functioning as a sane being under the surface, et al, it's hard for me to want to be without them. And that in itself is terrifying too because one day that will be true for any sort of partnership- familial, romantic or otherwise.
Recently, I finished the first season? (stand-alone?) of the series, Russian Doll. In it, two main characters grapple with repeatedly dying and being reanimated until they figure out the path their lives should have/could have taken to ensure their survival. Though it's relayed through quite a bit of dark humor, in the end, both characters realize the person who saw them as they were - not as a projection of what someone wanted them to be - and who continued to care about their existence was the one most important to them in that moment of turmoil. A true friend.
Unlike those characters, we do not have the luxury to live over; there's no opportunity to try and try again. When someone reaches out a hand toward you, either looking for help or trying to help you, don't refuse it. It's easy to recoil and resist, to "go it alone." Take the stoic way out - make no contacts, have no strings attached - it seems a lot easier and "cleaner" than dealing with the potential of loss and heartbreak.
Despite my love for and belief in the existential essence of the epigraph at the beginning of this post, on a practical level, it's not true. We aren't alone. Our lives are our own to experience in the way that we do. However, once you notice that someone else "sees you," it's difficult to accept that we're ever truly alone, or even meant to be.
A bell jar is an objet d'art and a beautifully simple method of execution - I should know. I watched something die right before my eyes underneath one.
As a junior in high school, I took AP Biology. The teacher, whom I had for freshman honors biology, was on the older side. He had a reputation for being a maverick. The most senior member of his department and nearly the entire faculty, he did what he wanted both curriculum-wise and behaviorally.
Despite his experience in the classroom, he didn't follow the AP curriculum necessary to prepare a class for success on a competitive standardized exam. What he did provide were a bizarre series of tasks, many nearly impossible to excel in, let alone complete. Our class dissected feral cats for months in an attempt to study anatomy. We hunted insects and mounted them as "entomological research." Our class also incubated chicken eggs to fruition as a study of embryology, hatching 20 or so chicks at the end of the experiment. As the noise of the peeping hatchlings filled the room, we students cooed and ahhed over their fluffy cuteness. However, it soon became apparent that one of the chicks had a massive anatomical deformity - it lacked fully functional hipbones. The chick, eager to follow its flock, pushed itself along with its feet. 20 sixteen to eighteen year olds encouraged it to keep on keeping on, while spitballing ideas of how to fashion a wheelchair out of classroom items so it could get around more easily.
Amidst the hubbub, our teacher went into his supply closet, returning with a bell jar and a bottle of clear liquid. He gently picked up the animal while barking orders at the lot of us to clean up and sit down. He placed the chick on the center of the black lab table he used for demonstrations at the front of the room. Then he poured a bit of the liquid onto a rag, placed it next to the struggling chick, and carefully clamped the bell jar over the tableau. The chick peeped a few times, first normally, then frantically, and finally there was silence. He swept the chick up in the rag and carefully placed the newly dead animal in the trashcan. The class sat - riveted and horrified. No one dares to speak out. The day's lesson after the shocking moment carried on as normal, and the whole ordeal was brushed away with a "that's that" mentality.
I will never forget that moment in his class. Not because I think he was incredibly wrong but because his actions were so matter of fact. Was there a lesson here or no real thought put into what he did that day? What did he expect of us? Had he hope there'd be a confrontation, an outburst? Was he without compassion or was what he did the compassionate thing to do? In the moment, I saw him as cruel, though in the back of my mind I knew that he was probably right since there was no hope for that chick to live a normal life. Now I see him as a teacher who missed out on an opportunity to explain something very real to his students. He didn't explain his actions or thought process to us at all. Not that he necessarily owed it to us for most of the choices he made, it was his classroom, a different era in education, etc, etc, but as someone who just snuffed out a life in front of us, he definitely did owe us something more. As a teacher now, I think about what I say and do in front of my students. Likely they will not remember a word I said about the Gilded Age or sustainability or 1848, but if they take anything away, it would hopefully be to treat others with respect, care and as thinking, feeling beings. That moment of non-explanation on his part demonstrated a lack of respect for us as competent, rational individuals. He let an opportunity for a human connection with his students slip past; he chose not to go there. I could respect his rationale if I knew it, but I will never know.
“Kids don't remember what you try to teach them. They remember what you are.” -Jim Henson
“I have had an intense and highly aesthetic
perception of what I call the icy bleakness of things. At the same time
I have felt a great loneliness in this perception. This conjunction of feelings
seems paradoxical, since such a perception, such a view of things, would seem
to preclude the emotion of loneliness, or any sense of a killing sadness,
as I think of it.” - Thomas Ligotti, The
Bungalow House
“But I didn’t despise the Christian girls. No, for some strange reason it
was precisely them I fell for. How could I explain that to Hilde? And although
I, like her, always tried to see beneath the surface, on the basis of a
fundamental yet unstated tenet that what lay beneath was the truth or the
reality, and, like her, always sought meaning, even if it were only to be found
in an acknowledgment of meaninglessness, it was actually on the glittering and alluring
surface that I wanted to live, and the chalice of meaninglessness I wanted to
drain – in short I was attracted by all the town’s discos and nightspots, where
I wanted nothing more than to drink myself senseless and stagger around chasing
girls I could fuck, or at least make out with. How could I explain that to
Hilde? I couldn’t, and I didn’t. Instead I opened a new subdivision in my life.
‘Booze and hopes of fornication’ it was called, and it was right next to
‘insight and sincerity,’ separated only by a minor garden-fence-like change of
personality.”
― Karl Ove Knausgård, My Struggle: Book 4
In the short horror story, The Bungalow House
by nihilist writer Thomas Ligotti, a narrator becomes obsessed with tape
recordings of dream monologues he encounters in a dusty, disordered art gallery
near his place of work. During one of his daily lunch breaks in the gallery, he
comes across a new performance art exhibit – an audio cassette recording by an
unnamed artist recounting his experience in an old, vermin-infested bungalow.
The monologue is impactful as much for its silence as its words, and the
narrator-listener becomes entranced by the recording, so much so that he
implores the shop owner for the right to purchase it. After listening to the
mysterious artist's second recording about an abandoned factory, the narrator
desires a meeting with the artist. From there, the horror, almost wholly psychological,
unfolds for the reader in a Borgesian style, leaving you with little to hold on
to as “truth” by the end.
Psychological horror as a genre has intrigued me
since I first read Kafka in high school. What untold damage we do to ourselves
through tortuous, endless thoughts! And while I would love to get into the
state of mental states at some later date, what struck me while reading this
story was the beautifully nihilistic view of the material world – that icy
bleakness of things. We imbue such life into our possessions by projecting
a meaning onto them that is not inherently there. To that point, I think about
the tub of stuffed animals sitting in my shed and get unnerved when I consider
throwing them out. I am sure I could find a place to donate them, but some are
likely too ratty and outdated to be relevant to any child today. And as to the
bleakness of things, I think about how I foisted such emotional meaning
into something so lifeless as a stuffed piece of fabric that even now, 30 plus
years later, I can’t bear to think about them mouldering in a landfill
somewhere, despite their once great significance being cut off to my adult
self.
The bleakness of things comes from the ultimate realization that the
hopes you have for said things will never be fulfilled - they are, in the end,
just things. Beautiful things, expensive things, cuddly things - all just
things. Once you realize their limitations, you have to accept that acquiring
more, or different, things will never fulfill you. Ever. Imagine the
ennui of a spoiled child opening a 40th present at their over-the-top birthday
party -everyone blames the kid for
being ungrateful, but the entire scene should be readily viewed as absurd. Yet
somehow, it’s not. It’s like blaming the victim in a sense. “Oh, you
don’t get happiness from things?Well,what does that say
about the rest of us;are we all LYING to ourselves?” Yes, Brenda,
you are all lying to yourselves. Now go have sex with the pool boy and
calm down. Things don’t bring happiness - a tautological thought for
sure, but hell, Americans needed a show to teach them this!
Despite their inherent meaninglessness, the “things” that surround us do have
an innate beauty. Even, or maybe especially, the discarded and forgotten
things. There’s a morbid curiosity I have about the amount of stuff that’s
created for human material consumption that goes unused - I am talking about
the literal millions of tons of unsold products that end up...in landfills?
In stores in developing nations? At the bottom of the ocean? The decay of
things. Sensitivity to the death of things. It’s beautiful, in a twisted way.
For the past year or so, I have been reading the
six volume novel, Min Kamp by Norwegian writer Karl Ove Knausgaard. When
I tell “people who read” what I am reading, they laugh or roll their eyes, ask
me how I can be reading such a series, because essentially it is about nothing.
And in that nothing, it is about the everything of life. He spends
passages, even pages describing his surroundings, from the natural to the
material to the corporeal. And for what? In the end, he’s living his life as a
normal person suffering through the mundanities of housework and childcare, the
tedium of monogamy and the frustrations of being a (generally) domesticated
animal that doesn’t rape and pillage its neighborhood. Same as most of us do on
a daily basis. But there’s an elegance to the nothingness. An allure of the
void. You’re reading about the life of a man who’s dissecting art history for
three pages and then follows up that intellectual goodness with him checking
out the cashier in a grocery store and anguishing over the guilt he feels
because he’s married and his wife would kill him if she knew any of his
innermost thoughts. For someone who spends a lot of time in their own head with
their innermost thoughts (very much so by nature and at this point, by choice),
this sort of juxtaposition makes complete sense. In moments of metacognition, I
will catch myself listening to what someone is telling me about history curricula
or whatever seemingly important stuff, but I will be more actively thinking
about how old they look today or some other awful bullshit. My thoughts
in those moments are unfiltered and wholly without judgment; if I can tune into
that frequency though it’s amazing to realize just how aware we really are of
the world around us. But, I guess due to “living our lives” we tune out a lot
of the excess observational shit we do almost nonstop.
Sometimes I revel in that aspect of being human - how, as animals, we do
have to be aware of our surroundings at all times. We’re lulled into this sense
of complacency about it, or consider it “beneath us,” because we’ve built our
societies one upon the other for so long, we seemingly are removed from
that animalistic part of ourselves. If you’re an American and you’ve ever been
to Rome or some other ancient city, it’s jarring to see the ruins of past
civilizations just sticking out of the ground. It’s a constant reminder of the
death of all civilizations, even great ones (ones whose legacy will extend
beyond the cultural landscape of a hut that sells pizza). Partially decayed,
totally void of usefulness to current humans...oh wait, what? Were our
societies just things like my stuffed animals of yore? What a humbling
realization. An understanding that you’re part of a never-ending cycle of
consciousness. Lather, rinse, repeat.
So why read such stories? Their appeal lies in
that bleakness - someone has made art out of just a life- a life like
any other; a life like my own. Life as art. Life is art. Mortality as
holding a beauty all its own - something that all those trope blasé vampires
yearn for. We should enjoy to live life, or at least endure living it to see
what sort of product is wrought by its end. Although we can argue about the
actuality of “free will,” the perception most of us have about the lives we
live is that we do have a degree of control over our choices. Perhaps there’s a
guiding hand of a god or some genetic programming that pushes us in certain
directions, but evolutionarily, our experience of consciousness is one of
freedom.
As Camus supposedly opined, “Should I kill myself, or have another cup of
coffee,” coffee always wins out because the death part can come without you
ever guiding it toward truth.
Occasionally there will be a scene in a tv show, movie or book that’ll really blow my emotions right out of their safety zone. Two of the more recent ones have been able to induce tears just trying to explain them to others.
I. The first is from the HBO series, “High Maintenance.” A seemingly innocuous premise, a guy, “The Guy,” delivers weed to New Yorkers and along his travels the viewer gets a glimpse into their inner lives, if only momentarily. It has the quality of a good, “humans of New York” posting, with more depth. Each vignette brings the viewer into the middle or sometimes even the end of a story that is someone’s life. At its funniest, the plot is absurd and/or madcap, while at its best there’s an existential poignancy that undergirds what’s visually unfolding. As an example, the first episode of the second season opens on the day after Trump was elected –day one of America’s new reality as Trumptopia. Neither the date nor his name are ever mentioned; the event stands alone as an awful day for most that “The Guy” encounters. Amongst the glimpses into the neoliberal yuppie reactions to how “totally freaking out” they are while deciding whether or not to: update their social media with personal achievements on such a dark day, cycling, brunching and partying, the voiceless underclass that surrounds them is already suffering. Within their current Obama-progressive America,life isn’t as grand and carefree as so many people wanted to believe. The periphery was already marginalized and will continue to endure worse treatment under the new, impending administration.
The final scenes of this episode zero in on a Latino immigrant who is working two jobs. After his second shift of the day at a bar, he goes into the night to ride a subway to pick up his child at his sister’s home, presumably far away from his current location at work. The episode closes out on him and his young son riding the subway in the early morning hours, playing happily with a balloon, shifting in and out of Spanish and English. The other riders, though seemingly disinterested at first, perhaps even annoyed by the giggling and talking, join in, laughing and lightening the mood of the entire episode. Even watching it as second time, knowing fully well what I’d see, I cried. I cried at the injustice of a country that promotes the ideology of scarcity. Scarcity of what? Surely not material wealth. No, the only scarcity is that of empathy. How can we, as a country, deny anyone who’s willing to take great sacrifices upon themselves and their families the right to be here? For the people who are here, working daily to make their lives or their children’s futures safer and more open to the opportunities that are supposedly available in this country over the ones they left. My Romantic (capital R Romantic) side still wells up with emotion over the possibilities that dwell within the founding documents of this country. As someone who has taught American history in some form or another for the past 13 years, my cynical side has deepened to think we will never escape the pettiness that prevents those universal freedoms from ever being a reality.
The disappointment I feel in regards to the current situation in this country is exemplified by the type of party politics that exist today. This weekend I read aneditorial that questioned whether or not MacKenzie Bezos should use her potential divorce settlement money to continue to influence progressive policymakers, as she and Jeff did when they were still together. The article also touched up on the conflict Democrats seem to come up against so often –wealthy donors and influencers funding a party that supposedly better represents the voiceless. Well, duh. The conflict is, and will continue to be, the mass accumulation of wealth by anyone, Democrat or otherwise. In all cases, it’s problematic and flies in the face of most real attempts at progressive reform in this country. For the ultrarich who have publicly called for more taxation or who have promised to bequeath their millions/billions to the people, there is still a disconnect. The system is the problem. The fact that they were able to accumulate such vast wealth will never be rectified by philanthropy or a new tax code. The entire system is corrupt and must be torn down. If Warren Buffet and his ilk were truly concerned about the future of this nation and in truth, the world, they would use their money to support policy that would render them an extinct breed of person. As long as there is the possibility of becoming a Buffet or a Bezos, there will be inequality and injustice.
II. The second and more spiritual of the two pieces that has left me in pieces as of late is a scene in a graphic novel. it served as a reminder of the indifference of the universe to any of our existences. Toward the end of Volume Seven of the series Saga, a minor character (and his entire family) perishes in a flood. The totally preventable death occurs because he is a member of a very religious family that believed their destiny was to be fulfilled on their home planet. No amount of coaxing from other characters could change their minds. In the final pages of the book, we see the youngest member of the family pleading for his life through prayer, appealing to the higher power to save him, as he is a true believer. What follows are a series of entirely black pages. As an atheist, I am not sure why this encouraged me to burst into tears - perhaps the finality of the entire scene coupled with the realization that we lie to ourselves and to others so often about our own mortality. Furthermore, the narrator, a friend to the dying boy, thinks about the potential energies of the people around us that are lost all of the time, whether through a missed connection or bad timing, etc. It’s an emotional miscarriage. As someone who has been troubled by the loss of deeply loved friends and relatives both to death and time, this really hit me hard. Although I read this over a year ago, the memory of it was reawakened by dreams I had about a former friend. Through the inevitable drifting that occurs over time and space, I haven’t spoken to someone that I considered my best friend for years now. And then within the space of only a few days, I had two dreams about him. One pleasant, one accusatory. As I tried to unpack my emotions, I was unsure of whether I should let sleeping dogs lie or reach out. Throughout this process, I also began to consider reaching out to others who I have lost contact with either intentionally or otherwise. With the ease of online communication, it would not be difficult to try to forge a reconnection, but would it be worth it emotionally? If they haven’t contacted me, do they want to hear from me? Would fear of rejection or ignorance keep me from even trying?
III. How do these seemingly disparate topics align? Am I grieving for loss national and personal, past and anticipated? Formerly, I steeled myself against feeling much of anything; spent years being as stoic as possible. And though that tendency still remains, to play my emotions close to the vest, I have come to value my outpourings in whatever form they come. There is an understanding that can be had from letting yourself experience externally whatever it is that you are feeling internally. Although I often joke about how repressed Americans seem to be, I truly think it is a national trait. The messiness of life is diverted into our cultural obsession with reality shows. In the dramatic ones, everyone seems absolutely over the top because we’re all so afraid of expressing our truths to each other and ourselves. But even in programs like Tidying Up and Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, viewers watch someone else clean up and straighten out their own lives without having to actually go through the difficult experience themselves. Of course we can take cues from others’ transformations, but each of our lives is unique and the catharsis would take time, energy and commitment. As someone who has mulled over and written about the importance of the "actual over the virtual" in many different posts, my full-circle moment for this post returns to that theme. As a species, we must remember that our day-to-day interactions are of value. Everything we are cannot be sublimated into our cultivated image. What are you left with, stripped down? What will your legacy be? What will you leave behind in the physical world?c Will anyone really have known you?
