Now I Am Here

“The world is material. We are always in a certain place. Now I am here.” - Autumn, Karl Ove Knausgaard

As a Social Studies teacher, a wide variety of courses get thrown your way - geography, sociology, law, psychology, history, economics - it depends on the school and course offerings, but most of the 'soft sciences' end up being something one might encounter along a career in the profession. In my 6th year of teaching, I took on human geography; the intersection of human culture and development with geography. The course itself is a distillation of social studies in a way - covering everything from linguistic development to demographics to agricultural systems.The cultural landscape is something I had never really considered deeply, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense and ultimately became one of my favorite classes to teach. Something that struck me most when beginning to study the subject in order to teach it was the influence of place on linguistic development. The native peoples of the Arctic Circle civilizations have many words for winter conditions that speak to not only what's coming out of the sky, but the conditions on the ground and whether or not said conditions are conducive to walking about. The perceptive abilities of humans will never be fully translate-able into verbal expression, but necessity can lead to amazing feats of human creation. 

Thinking about the interplay of humans and their environments, I hold an affinity toward extreme landscapes and often, those who come from them (or at least, the art they produce while in them). When the land itself is not welcoming to person or a people, it does something to their understanding of the world. So many Americans live in prefabricated neighborhoods and are entirely engulfed by the man-made as to never have to encounter the frightening vastness Earth has to offer. Since high school, I've personally wanted to see the Mojave Desert. The starkness of the desert biome has been likened to an extraterrestrial one many times; perhaps that's a deeply anthropocentric view. We did not create such vacancy; in fact, such traits are anathema to a social primate's instinctual desire for proximity and comfort, but that does not mean such landscapes do not belong here. Standing alone in a desert (hot or cold) surrounded for miles by emptiness would send anyone into an existential crisis after a while. Hell, it'd even make people want to live in Las Vegas just to avoid the uncomfortable nothingness. Humans are not so different from the  rhesus monkeys in Harlow's infamous psychology experiments. Primates, and likely many other animals, would give up actual nourishment for psychological comfort and security. Of course this might be a stretch of an analogy, but there is a degree of truth to why so many of us choose to live in less than ideal surroundings in exchange for the access to convenience of modern living, for the comfort of conformity with other members of our species.

For those who know me and have heard me fangirl over the epigraph's author, Karl Ove Knausgaard, you may also be aware that Norway is one of those places that calls to me. The extreme landscape has not only produced one of my all-time favorite writers, but also some of my favorite musicians. There is a conservative, Lutheran culture in Norway that I would venture to guess all of these artists have chafed against to produce their craft, a point that could be dissected in and of itself at length. What links the expressions that come from this environment is their reverence for the physical world that surrounds them. Even within the intense focus on his own mind for Knausgaard's six volume "autobiographical" novel,his writing has an expansiveness to it. Here we are, mining the depths of the mind of a middle aged man, and somehow we're faced with the unity of all of our own consciousnesses. Whether we want to admit it or not, we've all secretly scowled through meetings or cursed our friends or resented the existence of our most cherished. That internal struggle to be outwardly compassionate and inwardly curmudgeonly is not reserved for his experience. And although his work is not some sort of revelation in the sense that it's exactly saying something new, it does break through the confines of what we are supposed to publicly admit and feel about those whom with we share our lives.  

I've also been reading David Wojnarowicz's In the Shadow of the American Dream, which is a collection of his diaries from his teens through his fame and ultimate death from AIDS. There's something about the America he describes that reminds me of now; a brokenness or failure of culture that marginalizes those who do not fit in. The definition of who doesn't fit in is always shifting -that's the game. Sometimes marginalized groups are brought into the fold and a new "other" appears. Whomever the other is, however, within that marginalization there is a sort of freedom to create and be who you are. Although, on the other side, being persecuted for the exact same reasons comes along with those spaces. In final diaries, he's dying of AIDS-related complications, feeling as though his body has betrayed him but also that others have as well by continuing to live their mundane lives while he's thrust into the existential crisis of death. Living through a virus-caused pandemic right now, it's chilling to think about all of the parallels to the continued horrors of not knowing what the virus will do to a human host - Kaposi's sarcoma in young men? Blood clots that kill? We've lived this before. But death remains the ultimate "othering" - we shunt the dead and dying off into margins of our minds, even when they're the ones we love. The vastness of death is that existential desert we just can't bear to look at. 

Early into this pandemic, there was a moment where Americans really did seem to be at the precipice of an awakening to being more accepting of the unknown. People were spending more time outside, driving less, consuming less. As the pandemic has worn on and become more and more a politicized weapon, whatever desire for change has faded not because people care less but because they are made to suppress their desire for revolution. The pull of modern life plays on our desire for comfort and provides emotional shelter from mortality. Constant talk about returning to life as we knew it forms a sort of nostalgia for the old (even if it only mere months ago). Covid deaths continue to climb; we tend to understand the threat less and less, as the numbers become more and more abstract the higher they go. Similarly, the environmental crisis that looms in our near future has also kept us from dealing directly with the problem. The problem is our way of life. We must change, not the environment. We are part of the environment and must remember all of the times it has humbled us - even if one hasn't ever seen a town laid to waste by a tornado or hurricane, maybe a beautiful sunset gave pause, or a giant clap of thunder rattled one's brain. 

Sojourning through a desert for years on end in search of answers isn't a reasonable expectation for most to have. However, opening one's self to accept the existential expanse that is all around us is feasible even within the confines of a suburban hellscape. 

Musical Epilogue:
 
Although they're not Norwegian, American greats Mastodon have encapsulated this vastness perfectly in the song below....

Life In Mono

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.

Retrovertigo

“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

Down In It.

I've read some writers that breathe a degree of humanness like no other. No sweeping descriptions of crinoline skirts or horses or tempestuous storms - there's just subconscious nitty-gritty laid bare on the page. Even if you don't empathize with their characters, you somehow do because you're also a human. Psychological horror may be one way to describe it, and if we're being honest, we've all done that to ourselves at some point - gripped by a very real sense of fear for the irrational reason of we decided to freak ourselves out. But every author doesn't have to be Kafka to expose their audience to what it feels like to be human and, additionally, being such doesn't have to be so frightening (though it can be).

Karl Ove Knausgaard's series of books, My Struggle, as all six are titled, have reawakened my need to acknowledge that those feelings of humanness exist. We all feel uncontrollable desires and nasty thoughts - some of us choose not only to admit that to ourselves, but to others. In the second volume, Knausgaard has an entire passage analyzing Dostoevsky in which he states he feels "uncomfortable" in Dostoevsky's world. Perhaps, as an author, he views this analysis somewhat ironically, since his prose likely makes many readers uncomfortable. But he's right - in both writers' worlds, there's an "uncanny valley" aspect. A very human text describes someone's inner thoughts in a non-polished, non-John Greene sort of way. This is not a milieu where two teens, dying of cancer,  engage in repartee that conveys they have all the time in the world. This is not the type of stylized speak of Joss Whedon's worlds (Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Firefly) or of most television dramas.

In contrast, Knausgaard fleshes out the inner monologue you have running through your mind all day - the impassive thought you have on the check-out line at the supermarket, "Oh man, is that person ugly/fat/lazy/old." Thoughts your very well-mannered superego filter would never let you say aloud, but that still exist inside. And these thoughts aren't necessarily judgments, most are simple observations, categorizational attempts at making sense of the world around you. Though somehow, they can seem so taboo when revealed. Writers who touch on something uncomfortably human through their words are difficult to get through - think Nabokov's Lolita. Many have speculated that Nabokov himself had a predilection for underage girls to be able to get into the mind of his narrator, Humbert Humbert though, perhaps, his fictional explication reveals more about the interpreter than the author.

There's a rawness, a plainness, to a text that's not heavily stylized (or at least one comes off as such). It's not that other writers don't hit on very human emotions or empathetic experiences- the key is that the style of the text is pertinent. Yet, some people find this sort of writing overwhelming and more neurosis-inducing than anything else. Or as being as much of a distraction as any other form of art - clouding the mind from focusing on letting go or transcending to a higher plane of consciousness.

While I can see these opinions holding some weight, personally, I find such works cathartic. I am reminded that my own "flaws" tie me back into the one-ness of everything. There is no perfection to be attained because there is no standard. We all experience ups and downs, loves and losses, and ultimately, the same end -death. Yet in the interim, we're consumed by our thoughts, most of which signify nothing. They're exercises of our consciousness and even if we are master meditators who can make our thoughts sail away like clouds, new ones always form, and must be pushed aside again and again. The only clarity that we'll ever achieve is trying to understand ourselves, acknowledge what we find excitable, deplorable, indispensable, etc.

And thusly, a truly human text may just drag you down into the muck of being alive, and that, to me, is something we should never avoid facing.