Chekhov's "In Exile" illustrates well a philosophical dilemma I often experience. In the story, three main characters have been exiled to Siberia. (Incidentally, it's quite possible that none of them are actually guilty.)
Vassily Sergeich comes from a wealthy background, but ends up in Siberia anyway. His wife finally visits him, bringing him great happiness, but eventually she leaves, due in part to the harsh circumstances of their living conditions in exile. Vassily Sergeich despairs, until learning to focus his love and optimism on his blossoming daughter. She eventually becomes sick and succumbs to consumption, also a victim of circumstance, leaving Vassily Sergeich little to hope for beyond the search for new and better doctors.
The character known as the Tartar is both poor and an outsider, an exile among exiles. He would gladly be tortured, if it meant a one-day visit from his wife: "Better a single day of happiness than nothing at all." Instead, due to circumstances, he is constantly hungry, cold, and miserable. The other workers refuse to share their tip money with him, and only laugh at him as he sleeps outside in the cold.
The third character, old Semyon ("nicknamed Smarty"), expects very little of his time on earth. He spends his days on and by the water, and his nights drinking vodka, and that's simply all there is. He lives in passive contentment because he accepts the nature of his existence - his life in Siberia.
To my mind, none of these characters has it totally right... or totally wrong. Two of them truly believe in love, and care about living passionately and authentically, but become overwhelmed by the system, unable to fight it. One is rich, and the other poor, but the same chains bind them. The third is like a Buddhist: he lives in the moment, but desires little; he is content because he wants nothing more.
There is no simple way to define the ideal equilibrium of traits and circumstances between these three characters. It's complicated, as it is in life. But there is a certain abstract quality that arises from the sum of their experiences. Perhaps we can take the best elements from the shared experience of Vassily Sergeich, the Tartar, and Semyon. Put it all together, extract what's needed, and reform the equation. "The desire for another life is that life already."
We want it all. And we want to be happy while seeking "it" out.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Friday, September 30, 2011
Occupy Boston
HAVE YOU EVER FELT LIKE HAVING AN UNEMPLOYMENT FESTIVAL? Did you ever suppress the urge to commit violent acts against the institutions that exploit you? Have you ever wanted to celebrate in the “lonely financial zone”... just to see what if feels like?
There are quite a few things going on here, and perhaps they can be captured, at least in part, by the old Wobbly adage of “the seed of the new society taking shape within the shell of the old.”
I participated in the first two general assemblies preceding the forthcoming Occupy Boston movement. It seems that folks are angry – at corporate greed, at corruption, at bank bailouts, at being pawns in a game played by the richest 1% of the population, at not having access to food, shelter, health care.... None of this anger is unfounded. “We are the 99%.” And we have many reasons to be pissed off.
We also have reasons to celebrate.
Or do you not think so? Then let us make reasons to celebrate. There is a theory, and it has many variations, but I will state it this way: that what exists is only what one perceives at a given moment of space-time. What one experiences at that moment – that's all there "is." However much stock one takes in that theory, I propose we adopt it for our purposes. Let's make our perception beautiful, and let's celebrate that beauty, for as long as possible, in the gaunt, bony face of those in power – the dead eye socket at the top of the pyramid.
Dewey Square. Beginning Friday, September 30, at 6pm.
A fictional character once paraphrased a man wiser than himself in saying one should end with a quote. I make no distinction between fiction and non-fiction, wise and unwise; so here is Debord via Vaneigem, The Revolution of Everyday Life:
“Subjective imagination is not purely mental: it is always seeking its practical realization. There can be no doubt that the artistic spectacle – and above all its narrative forms – plays on subjectivity's quest for self-realization, but solely by captivating it, by making it function in terms of passive identification. Debord's propaganda film Critique de la separation stresses the point: 'As a rule the things that happen to us in our individual lives as organized at present, the things which really succeed in catching our attention and soliciting our involvement, are the very things that ought to leave us cold and distant spectators. By contrast many a situation glimpsed through the lens of any old piece of artistic transposition is the very one that should attract us, and engage our participation. This paradox must be turned upside down – put back on its feet.'”
And Hakim Bey, laying out the preconditions for the tactic of “The Temporary Autonomous Zone” (TAZ), which Occupy Boston could theoretically become:
“Psychological liberation. That is, we must realize (make real) the moments and spaces in which freedom is not only possible but actual. We must know in what ways we are genuinely oppressed, and also in what ways we are self-repressed or ensnared in a fantasy in which ideas oppress us. WORK, for example, is a far more actual source of misery for most of us than legislative politics. Alienation is far more dangerous for us than toothless outdated dying ideologies Mental addiction to 'ideals' – which in fact turn out to be mere projections of our resentment and sensations of victimization – will never further our project. The TAZ is not a harbinger of some pie-in-the-sky Social Utopia to which we must sacrifice our lives that our children's children may breathe a bit of free air. The TAZ must be the scene of our present autonomy, but it can only exist on the condition that we already know ourselves as free beings.”
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Simpin'
"What are my true desires?" I asked myself this question, about a month ago, while looking into a mirror, per the poetic suggestion of Peter Lamborn Wilson. Here is a summary of the answer I came up with then: to be happy, ecstatic, or imbued with pleasure, as much as possible, through as many different means as possible.
Pretty straightforward, isn't it? And yet, it feels accurate.
Lately I've also been thinking about how good I feel when everything is going smoothly and in organized fashion... banal things, I mean. Like, I can pick chives from the yard while my bagel toasts and the coffee roasts, then take care of my videos*, and write a few emails before leaving for class... boom. Pretty vanilla, huh? It feels good though, and I've come to realize that it's a momentary feeling. That's not a bad thing. It's great to have very short time periods when everything just seems ideal.
On the other hand, there are times when every part of ordinary life goes badly - missing buses, no time to eat, forgetting things at home, etc. This is no fun, but the same sort of "positive logic" applies: things are going badly at this moment, but it's only a moment. Of course I prefer the former feeling, and I strive for it most of the time, but it's not always there. And for me, the simplest and best way to handle it all is to embrace those great moments and let go of (deal with) the bad ones. Simple.
...
I saw a little kid on the T the other day, coming home from Fenway Park with his dad, wearing a Red Sox cap, and playing with a toy baseball bat or something like that (I wasn't paying too close attention, I guess). Different kind of "simple" - the pleasant nostalgia of having no responsibilities in the world except to play.
Seeing the people pouring into Lafayette Park after the announcement of Bin Laden's death, I thought of the presumably comfortable apartments they were leaving that night - well-lit, with carpets, and open windows.... Also a different kind of "simple" - simple material comfort, I suppose.
Then there is the simplicity of Debord and Bernstein's cold-water dwelling in Paris in the early 1950s - simply uncomfortable, physically, but with a simple focus on stimulation of the mind... perhaps? I'll leave off with a description of their abode - simple, to be sure, yet terribly romantic, I think - as found in Andy Merrifield's Guy Debord:
"Henri Lefebvre, who didn't live far away from Debord and Michele Bernstein, remembered their inhabiting 'a kind of studio on rue Saint Martin, in a dark room, no lights at all'. It was 'a miserable place, but at the same time a place where there was a great deal of strength and radiance in the thinking and the research'. Nobody knew how Debord got by. He had no job, didn't want a job, opting instead to reside in a rich and happy poverty, a privilege long gone for most big city dwellers."
* Curating YouTube videos for several Redux channels is a new part-time/freelance gig I've acquired - here's my page.
Pretty straightforward, isn't it? And yet, it feels accurate.
Lately I've also been thinking about how good I feel when everything is going smoothly and in organized fashion... banal things, I mean. Like, I can pick chives from the yard while my bagel toasts and the coffee roasts, then take care of my videos*, and write a few emails before leaving for class... boom. Pretty vanilla, huh? It feels good though, and I've come to realize that it's a momentary feeling. That's not a bad thing. It's great to have very short time periods when everything just seems ideal.
On the other hand, there are times when every part of ordinary life goes badly - missing buses, no time to eat, forgetting things at home, etc. This is no fun, but the same sort of "positive logic" applies: things are going badly at this moment, but it's only a moment. Of course I prefer the former feeling, and I strive for it most of the time, but it's not always there. And for me, the simplest and best way to handle it all is to embrace those great moments and let go of (deal with) the bad ones. Simple.
...
I saw a little kid on the T the other day, coming home from Fenway Park with his dad, wearing a Red Sox cap, and playing with a toy baseball bat or something like that (I wasn't paying too close attention, I guess). Different kind of "simple" - the pleasant nostalgia of having no responsibilities in the world except to play.
Seeing the people pouring into Lafayette Park after the announcement of Bin Laden's death, I thought of the presumably comfortable apartments they were leaving that night - well-lit, with carpets, and open windows.... Also a different kind of "simple" - simple material comfort, I suppose.
Then there is the simplicity of Debord and Bernstein's cold-water dwelling in Paris in the early 1950s - simply uncomfortable, physically, but with a simple focus on stimulation of the mind... perhaps? I'll leave off with a description of their abode - simple, to be sure, yet terribly romantic, I think - as found in Andy Merrifield's Guy Debord:
"Henri Lefebvre, who didn't live far away from Debord and Michele Bernstein, remembered their inhabiting 'a kind of studio on rue Saint Martin, in a dark room, no lights at all'. It was 'a miserable place, but at the same time a place where there was a great deal of strength and radiance in the thinking and the research'. Nobody knew how Debord got by. He had no job, didn't want a job, opting instead to reside in a rich and happy poverty, a privilege long gone for most big city dwellers."
* Curating YouTube videos for several Redux channels is a new part-time/freelance gig I've acquired - here's my page.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Like a Flashlight in a Tanning Salon
Preface: It's remarkable how the walk home from Quincy Center, especially after a long day and/or night, can literally exhaust the thoughts out of my head. Having said that....
Freedom. It's easy to define... with words. In theory and in practice, the concept becomes more muddled. We went out for drinks tonight after Film Club, and after talking to Alisha, I quite admire the fact that she's going back to work - at a neighborhood flower shop - at 1 in the morning. Because she wants to, and because she can. Through subconscious association, I connect this action to the second semester of my sophomore year in college - doing actual work (even if that often meant reading, watching, writing about, and making films), but also freely wandering the city of Boston (downtown, the Common, Beacon Hill, Cambridge, Somerville, etc.) - at all hours of the night. Wandering, and going places, in the middle of the night. A wonderful feeling to have so many goals and options, at such witching hours. Sure, I feel a bit more chained living in the 'burbs, when the yellow house on Common Street is my destination most nights after 10, and almost all nights after 1. But I had a limited range even in Austin, even in Somerville. I had wonderful experiences within those ranges, but it was always in one direction. Before, when I lived at 6 Arlington Street, overlooking the Garden... it was like living at an oyster bar.
I wrote the above passage about a month ago. Revisiting it today, it's easy to see that I was mistaken. Or rather, I was limited perceptively. The possibilities for enriching and pleasureful experiences exist everywhere in this world... I merely found it easier to create them while living in the middle of a fairly large city - in the middle of the night, anyway.
That's the other thing: I jumped off from the perspective of a night owl, which I am - not only do I seem to come alive at night, but I feed keenly on my surroundings, in the moonlight, when everything takes on a peculiarly indescribable nocturnal quality - but that, in itself, is a philosophical limitation; it's only one side of the coin. I feed on my surroundings in daylight too, just in a different manner. But to ignore that for the sake of a philosophical treatise on adventure... that's just silly.
Then again... I did ignore it! There must be something to the whimsy of the mind, the pen, and the keyboard. I guess the only thing to take from this - before I pull another about-face - is to open the mind as much as possible while simultaneously thinking critically about the information that said open mind yields.
I will say this: I did not expect to find myself in the middle of this particular mental dialogue when I began typing a short while ago. But in such a situation, I feel a strong urge to simply throw this one to the gods of cyberspace, and click on that button that says "Publish Post--"
Freedom. It's easy to define... with words. In theory and in practice, the concept becomes more muddled. We went out for drinks tonight after Film Club, and after talking to Alisha, I quite admire the fact that she's going back to work - at a neighborhood flower shop - at 1 in the morning. Because she wants to, and because she can. Through subconscious association, I connect this action to the second semester of my sophomore year in college - doing actual work (even if that often meant reading, watching, writing about, and making films), but also freely wandering the city of Boston (downtown, the Common, Beacon Hill, Cambridge, Somerville, etc.) - at all hours of the night. Wandering, and going places, in the middle of the night. A wonderful feeling to have so many goals and options, at such witching hours. Sure, I feel a bit more chained living in the 'burbs, when the yellow house on Common Street is my destination most nights after 10, and almost all nights after 1. But I had a limited range even in Austin, even in Somerville. I had wonderful experiences within those ranges, but it was always in one direction. Before, when I lived at 6 Arlington Street, overlooking the Garden... it was like living at an oyster bar.
I wrote the above passage about a month ago. Revisiting it today, it's easy to see that I was mistaken. Or rather, I was limited perceptively. The possibilities for enriching and pleasureful experiences exist everywhere in this world... I merely found it easier to create them while living in the middle of a fairly large city - in the middle of the night, anyway.
That's the other thing: I jumped off from the perspective of a night owl, which I am - not only do I seem to come alive at night, but I feed keenly on my surroundings, in the moonlight, when everything takes on a peculiarly indescribable nocturnal quality - but that, in itself, is a philosophical limitation; it's only one side of the coin. I feed on my surroundings in daylight too, just in a different manner. But to ignore that for the sake of a philosophical treatise on adventure... that's just silly.
Then again... I did ignore it! There must be something to the whimsy of the mind, the pen, and the keyboard. I guess the only thing to take from this - before I pull another about-face - is to open the mind as much as possible while simultaneously thinking critically about the information that said open mind yields.
I will say this: I did not expect to find myself in the middle of this particular mental dialogue when I began typing a short while ago. But in such a situation, I feel a strong urge to simply throw this one to the gods of cyberspace, and click on that button that says "Publish Post--"
Saturday, April 30, 2011
No Settlements, No Sentiments, No Sediments
"Much of the conversation in the county consisted of lines from television shows, both present and past." - Kurt Vonnegut, Breakfast of Champions
"Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog.” - Bill, walking by a taxidermist's, in Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises
“As often as I've read the Gospels I've never run across a single reference to the baggage that Jesus toted around. There is not even mention of a satchel, such as Somerset Maugham made use of when walking about in China. (Bufano, the sculptor, travels lighter than any man I know, but even Bennie is obliged to carry a shaving kit in which he stuffs a change of linen, a toothbrush and a pair of socks.) As for Jesus by all accounts he didn't own a toothbrush[...] He had no wants, that's the thing. He didn't even have to think about such a menial job as wardrobe attendant. After a time he ceased working as a carpenter. Not that he was looking for bigger wages. No, he had more important work to do. He set out to prove the absurdity of living by the sweat of one's brow. Behold the lilies in the field...." - Henry Miller, Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch
Not so long ago, I read through these quotes and others (from books I've read in the past year), and felt a bit inspired - to live life in the most "ideal" way. Then I asked myself if I had not felt that way before. I had. And had I changed or improved or developed since the last time I felt that way? And the time before? Perhaps, yes. But perhaps that's a superficial question to ask in the first place.
If one looks at life from a purely physiological viewpoint, considering the vast changes in body and mind from minute to minute (even second to second), then one is never really the same person as he or she was a few minutes ago. "Last election I voted Republican, this election I didn't vote at all." "Last week I ate turkey sandwiches, this week I eat pizza." "Yesterday I believed in a god, today I believe in a Donald Trump." There's no permanence, no "I," no "me," and no "you." And if "I" accept this perspective, then whether or not I've developed or improved means nothing compared to the way I live right now.
This perspective can also be applied to all the "menial jobs" out there, the ones where the surplus of profits (after 1) business expenses; and 2) employees' survival: food and shelter) serves only to line the pockets of those higher up on the chain, thus equating the employees' work with a "waste of time" in the truest sense possible, but we'll save that conversation for another day....
"Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog.” - Bill, walking by a taxidermist's, in Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises
“As often as I've read the Gospels I've never run across a single reference to the baggage that Jesus toted around. There is not even mention of a satchel, such as Somerset Maugham made use of when walking about in China. (Bufano, the sculptor, travels lighter than any man I know, but even Bennie is obliged to carry a shaving kit in which he stuffs a change of linen, a toothbrush and a pair of socks.) As for Jesus by all accounts he didn't own a toothbrush[...] He had no wants, that's the thing. He didn't even have to think about such a menial job as wardrobe attendant. After a time he ceased working as a carpenter. Not that he was looking for bigger wages. No, he had more important work to do. He set out to prove the absurdity of living by the sweat of one's brow. Behold the lilies in the field...." - Henry Miller, Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch
Not so long ago, I read through these quotes and others (from books I've read in the past year), and felt a bit inspired - to live life in the most "ideal" way. Then I asked myself if I had not felt that way before. I had. And had I changed or improved or developed since the last time I felt that way? And the time before? Perhaps, yes. But perhaps that's a superficial question to ask in the first place.
If one looks at life from a purely physiological viewpoint, considering the vast changes in body and mind from minute to minute (even second to second), then one is never really the same person as he or she was a few minutes ago. "Last election I voted Republican, this election I didn't vote at all." "Last week I ate turkey sandwiches, this week I eat pizza." "Yesterday I believed in a god, today I believe in a Donald Trump." There's no permanence, no "I," no "me," and no "you." And if "I" accept this perspective, then whether or not I've developed or improved means nothing compared to the way I live right now.
This perspective can also be applied to all the "menial jobs" out there, the ones where the surplus of profits (after 1) business expenses; and 2) employees' survival: food and shelter) serves only to line the pockets of those higher up on the chain, thus equating the employees' work with a "waste of time" in the truest sense possible, but we'll save that conversation for another day....
Thursday, April 28, 2011
This will serve as my journalistic contribution to reporting on the Royal Wedding
Disclaimer: the following entry was written in my notebook an undisclosed period of time ago. Not only does it seem more vain and self-centered than usual, but it has become outmoded. I don't think it accurately reflects my current state of mind, my attitude towards others, or my attitude towards my own living. However, there are a few kernels of well-intentioned thought within, and - more importantly - this passage represents a flux of thought that I have begun to embrace. I mean, purely for the sake of the flux. Hopefully, when compared to past and future writings, the following words will represent but a moment in time. Nothing more. (Also, I haven't written on here in awhile, so I felt like I should put something up. It's pretty short anyway.)
I see a guy on the #57 bus with a waxed mustache, a goatee, and long hair under a beret. He's also wearing a blazer. I'm thinking that this guy is the cheesiest goddamn stereotype in the world, especially with that pensive-brooding look on his face.
I used to dress "weirdly." I wore and combined styles that I thought no one else wore, and I may have been right. For awhile, I wore '60s checked polyester pants with T-shirts. Later, when playing guitar for Send More Cops, I always wore black pleated trousers and outrageously-patterned '70s button-downs with only the widest of lapels. These styles felt to me to be truly unique, and maybe they were... but after living in Boston for a period of time (and even growing a mustache years before it become ironic in Allston; I thought it was fucking funny and classy), I became conscious of playing a role. No matter how unique my style was, it became a substitute - and not an aid - for more authentic living.
So I decided I might as well just wear jeans, vaguely follow the trends, and blend in. It's more or less worked, hasn't it? Now all the weirdness I tried to outwardly display has been pushed back inside....
I see a guy on the #57 bus with a waxed mustache, a goatee, and long hair under a beret. He's also wearing a blazer. I'm thinking that this guy is the cheesiest goddamn stereotype in the world, especially with that pensive-brooding look on his face.
I used to dress "weirdly." I wore and combined styles that I thought no one else wore, and I may have been right. For awhile, I wore '60s checked polyester pants with T-shirts. Later, when playing guitar for Send More Cops, I always wore black pleated trousers and outrageously-patterned '70s button-downs with only the widest of lapels. These styles felt to me to be truly unique, and maybe they were... but after living in Boston for a period of time (and even growing a mustache years before it become ironic in Allston; I thought it was fucking funny and classy), I became conscious of playing a role. No matter how unique my style was, it became a substitute - and not an aid - for more authentic living.
So I decided I might as well just wear jeans, vaguely follow the trends, and blend in. It's more or less worked, hasn't it? Now all the weirdness I tried to outwardly display has been pushed back inside....
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Crunch!
Just got my tax returns, so I've been spending money a tad more freely in the past several days. This mostly applies to food. Instinctually, to me, that makes sense - to spend "surplus" money on good food, good experiences in general. That drive receives positive reinforcement from almost everything I'm reading these days... no past, no future, and a strong affirmation of the present. This very moment. Succinctly put in a conversation had last night: our conceptions about the past and future serve, from both ends, to crunch our experience of the present.
Okay. But then there is the push in the other direction, to put that meagre sum of surplus towards things that... last. I'm talking about savings both practical (for the back surgery I'll need to get when I'm 80 - or younger - or never) and pleasureful (like a trip some time in the near future), as well as the immediate expense of something like a new pair of sneakers. These are each valid repositories in their own ways. Then, to further play devil's advocate: I went to Punjabi Dhaba for dinner before class last night, and had an excellent dish (though I can't remember it's name) and a delightful mango lassi. I will remember that meal as a wonderful experience, and will be able to point it out to anyone else as we walk through Inman Square, or suggest the restaurant to anyone else who is anywhere near Inman for whatever reason. And here I am writing it out for you now. But really, what's the point? It's in the past. That wonderful meal is gone forever... so why do I bother to talk about it, or even remember it at all?
Amidst these conflicting thoughts, today I ordered myself an eggplant parm sub. I spent the extra dollar to get one from a "very premium place," as Alex would say in Everything is Illuminated. My choice of take-out sent me on a walk through the cemetery. I take that walk quite a bit, often for pleasure, but today the headstones caught my eye in a whole new way. I usually look at the names, but today I saw the dates, particularly the lifespans of those who died pre-1930 or so.
1837-1850
1890-1925
1860-1860
1884-1912
That last one lived to be 28. My current age. The thoughts I started this entry with had been dancing around in my mind, until I saw these dates. The concretization of these lifespans gave me no specific insight to clarify my previous thoughts, but it did give me a feeling. Rattle the bones... clear the mind.
Without further elucidation, the extra dollar spent was worth it. And had I not had that eggplant sub at all, these words I've just written may have been totally different.
Okay. But then there is the push in the other direction, to put that meagre sum of surplus towards things that... last. I'm talking about savings both practical (for the back surgery I'll need to get when I'm 80 - or younger - or never) and pleasureful (like a trip some time in the near future), as well as the immediate expense of something like a new pair of sneakers. These are each valid repositories in their own ways. Then, to further play devil's advocate: I went to Punjabi Dhaba for dinner before class last night, and had an excellent dish (though I can't remember it's name) and a delightful mango lassi. I will remember that meal as a wonderful experience, and will be able to point it out to anyone else as we walk through Inman Square, or suggest the restaurant to anyone else who is anywhere near Inman for whatever reason. And here I am writing it out for you now. But really, what's the point? It's in the past. That wonderful meal is gone forever... so why do I bother to talk about it, or even remember it at all?
Amidst these conflicting thoughts, today I ordered myself an eggplant parm sub. I spent the extra dollar to get one from a "very premium place," as Alex would say in Everything is Illuminated. My choice of take-out sent me on a walk through the cemetery. I take that walk quite a bit, often for pleasure, but today the headstones caught my eye in a whole new way. I usually look at the names, but today I saw the dates, particularly the lifespans of those who died pre-1930 or so.
1837-1850
1890-1925
1860-1860
1884-1912
That last one lived to be 28. My current age. The thoughts I started this entry with had been dancing around in my mind, until I saw these dates. The concretization of these lifespans gave me no specific insight to clarify my previous thoughts, but it did give me a feeling. Rattle the bones... clear the mind.
Without further elucidation, the extra dollar spent was worth it. And had I not had that eggplant sub at all, these words I've just written may have been totally different.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Up to the Day news
Ah, to finish up the day with King Cobra, Slim Jims, and the Marquis de Sade (Justine)... that is the life.
In the midst of this realization the other night, I thought to post my feelings on Facebook and Twitter. But that in and of itself was a sort of WTF moment; why bother? (Especially on Twitter, where I have like eight followers, half of whom are personal friends (and on Facebook), the other half I've never met.)
I have nothing remotely profound or provocative to say here today. I'm taking a drawing class, am really enjoying it, and have been trying to draw every day - portraits, tsunamis, little Buddhas, cow skulls.... I'm also taking a class on dreamachines - a non-transmutable source of hallucinogenic stimulation - and have much reading to do. (Both of these courses, by the way, are through Corvid College, which I am absolutely loving.) So the time I have to devote to writing ends up falling into three categories: that which I get paid for (necessary), that which I could conceivably get paid for (like contests or essays I hope to get published), and that spent on film "scripts".* The blog suffers... at least quantitatively. Then again, if I had something really profound to say, I would probably get it up here anyway.
And that is that.
* It's weird to actually look at the word "scripts" in conjunction with what I'm working on now, hence the quotes. I don't know what to call them, but they aren't really scripts. They will eventually become films, hopefully.
In the midst of this realization the other night, I thought to post my feelings on Facebook and Twitter. But that in and of itself was a sort of WTF moment; why bother? (Especially on Twitter, where I have like eight followers, half of whom are personal friends (and on Facebook), the other half I've never met.)
I have nothing remotely profound or provocative to say here today. I'm taking a drawing class, am really enjoying it, and have been trying to draw every day - portraits, tsunamis, little Buddhas, cow skulls.... I'm also taking a class on dreamachines - a non-transmutable source of hallucinogenic stimulation - and have much reading to do. (Both of these courses, by the way, are through Corvid College, which I am absolutely loving.) So the time I have to devote to writing ends up falling into three categories: that which I get paid for (necessary), that which I could conceivably get paid for (like contests or essays I hope to get published), and that spent on film "scripts".* The blog suffers... at least quantitatively. Then again, if I had something really profound to say, I would probably get it up here anyway.
And that is that.
* It's weird to actually look at the word "scripts" in conjunction with what I'm working on now, hence the quotes. I don't know what to call them, but they aren't really scripts. They will eventually become films, hopefully.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Song and Dance
“I remember my favorite nights were just getting drunk and walking around the East Village kicking over garbage cans. Just the night. Just the night. Just that it would be night again. And you could go out, you know? It just seemed glorious. And you'd be humming these great songs and anything could happen, and it was usually pretty good. You'd pick up some chick. You'd have an adventure. You'd go to some fantasy where you'd never been before." - Legs McNeil, Please Kill Me
This is it, boiled down to its essence. The intersection of authentic experience, passionate expectation, wandering, drifting, radiating subjectivity outwards, poetry in life. Not that we could stumble around the East Village today, kicking over garbage cans and singing Ramones songs, and expect a similar experience to the one McNeil describes. No, that time must be over. But the idea still exists. That merely to step outside one's front door, with an open-minded will to create, can open up a world of possibilities. I love those days when I and my companions set out with a place in mind - or even an idea ("Let's go for a walk") - imbued with poetry, whether in written form, sonic form (like the Ramones), or of the soul (or of the gut)... and end up somewhere. Somewhere beautiful. Days in Austin come to mind, many of which have been described on this blog (like here and here), partly because that city's combination of climate and urban layout seem to encourage pleasureful drifting. But it can happen anywhere.
Jeremy and I have been having these experiences lately on Saturdays in Cambridge. January 29, with the great Off With Their Heads in our heads, we set out for a temporarily-installed Estonian sauna at the Meme Gallery - it turned out that the space was too small for an actual sauna, so we got a presentation instead - and then ended up spending hours in the wondrous confines of Central Square. Places like the Middle East Corner, Falafel Palace, and the Field. On the T ride back to Quincy, a woman strangely asked me why I tapped my can of Coke before opening it. Thinking this might be a long ride with her next to me, I wearily explained the carbonation business. But as it turns out, she had been turned away from the sold-out last Konks show, worked at Hubba Hubba, and was married to one of the Real Kids. The three of us spent a very pleasant - and refreshing - ride back, trading stories and just shooting the shit. We made plans to meet up again.
The following Saturday, Jeremy and I set out at noon for either a Palestinian poetry reading in Cambridge or an Egyptian solidarity protest in Copley Square. The reading appeared to have been canceled or delayed, and by then, nourishment took precedence over protest. So we went to Crazy Dough's for Greek-topping pizza and a pitcher of PBR. On our way to Raven Books (our favorite book store in town), we stopped at one of my favorites, Charlie's Kitchen, home of the 23 ounce Hoegaarden and double cheeseburger. And an awesome jukebox. There, we ended up meeting a very interesting woman who used to hang out with Cheetah Chrome from the Dead Boys. (These Saturdays develop common themes.) After Raven, we went back to Charlie's, and spent the rest of the day with Katie, who had only ended up there herself because of an eye appointment next door.
Another time, another city. Visiting Susanna in Jacksonville, she and I went out one night after dinner. She had the smart idea to visit successively less classy places as the night went on. So we started with coffees at Biscotti's, an upscale cafe/wine bar. Then to the Casbah Cafe, a very cool Hookah lounge. As we walked into the third place, the great Lomax Lodge, a guy at the door with a pool cue told us there was free beer in the back. No way. "Yeah, there's free beer in the back." Get outta here. "Seriously, free beer in the back." Are you messing with us? "No, I mean it." We still didn't believe him, but made our way back, and sure enough, a keg of Lagunitas IPA, being poured by the jolliest of bartenders I've yet seen. And Four Loko in a cooler behind the bar. And whatever the occasion was, the DJs were playing awesome old soul music. The day before, the amazing "Up on the Roof" by the Drifters had spontaneously popped into my head. I asked one of the Lomax DJs, and she didn't think she had it. But then miraculously, at the stroke of midnight, its soulful harmonies emanated from the house PA. Seventh heaven. The place we went after was a bit classier, and correspondingly less memorable, but nevertheless, the night had been made.
What am I getting at with all of this? Simply that I want to live with this open-minded, spontaneous energy as much as possible. To create my days, brick by brick, with the whimsy of Mario making his way through the Mushroom Kingdom on his way to save Princess Toadstool. Two caveats: 1. Although I've emphasized bars, cafes, and restaurants, I feel that other venues of entertainment - amusement parks, caves, government buildings, jungles, etc., etc. - have not been properly exploited in the architecture of daily life. I want to extend creative living and wandering to all spheres. 2. Paradoxically, I'm well aware of the demands our current socio-political climate places on survival. We have to buy food, find shelter, go to the dentist, etc. These necessities don't necessarily jive with the free living I'm talking about, but... we can work on it, yeah? Build the new world in the shell of the old. Ideas reinforce practice, practice reinvigorates theory. And with a little bit of momentum, theory and practice together put a dent in the shell which hosts them. Thwomp.
This is it, boiled down to its essence. The intersection of authentic experience, passionate expectation, wandering, drifting, radiating subjectivity outwards, poetry in life. Not that we could stumble around the East Village today, kicking over garbage cans and singing Ramones songs, and expect a similar experience to the one McNeil describes. No, that time must be over. But the idea still exists. That merely to step outside one's front door, with an open-minded will to create, can open up a world of possibilities. I love those days when I and my companions set out with a place in mind - or even an idea ("Let's go for a walk") - imbued with poetry, whether in written form, sonic form (like the Ramones), or of the soul (or of the gut)... and end up somewhere. Somewhere beautiful. Days in Austin come to mind, many of which have been described on this blog (like here and here), partly because that city's combination of climate and urban layout seem to encourage pleasureful drifting. But it can happen anywhere.
Jeremy and I have been having these experiences lately on Saturdays in Cambridge. January 29, with the great Off With Their Heads in our heads, we set out for a temporarily-installed Estonian sauna at the Meme Gallery - it turned out that the space was too small for an actual sauna, so we got a presentation instead - and then ended up spending hours in the wondrous confines of Central Square. Places like the Middle East Corner, Falafel Palace, and the Field. On the T ride back to Quincy, a woman strangely asked me why I tapped my can of Coke before opening it. Thinking this might be a long ride with her next to me, I wearily explained the carbonation business. But as it turns out, she had been turned away from the sold-out last Konks show, worked at Hubba Hubba, and was married to one of the Real Kids. The three of us spent a very pleasant - and refreshing - ride back, trading stories and just shooting the shit. We made plans to meet up again.
The following Saturday, Jeremy and I set out at noon for either a Palestinian poetry reading in Cambridge or an Egyptian solidarity protest in Copley Square. The reading appeared to have been canceled or delayed, and by then, nourishment took precedence over protest. So we went to Crazy Dough's for Greek-topping pizza and a pitcher of PBR. On our way to Raven Books (our favorite book store in town), we stopped at one of my favorites, Charlie's Kitchen, home of the 23 ounce Hoegaarden and double cheeseburger. And an awesome jukebox. There, we ended up meeting a very interesting woman who used to hang out with Cheetah Chrome from the Dead Boys. (These Saturdays develop common themes.) After Raven, we went back to Charlie's, and spent the rest of the day with Katie, who had only ended up there herself because of an eye appointment next door.
Another time, another city. Visiting Susanna in Jacksonville, she and I went out one night after dinner. She had the smart idea to visit successively less classy places as the night went on. So we started with coffees at Biscotti's, an upscale cafe/wine bar. Then to the Casbah Cafe, a very cool Hookah lounge. As we walked into the third place, the great Lomax Lodge, a guy at the door with a pool cue told us there was free beer in the back. No way. "Yeah, there's free beer in the back." Get outta here. "Seriously, free beer in the back." Are you messing with us? "No, I mean it." We still didn't believe him, but made our way back, and sure enough, a keg of Lagunitas IPA, being poured by the jolliest of bartenders I've yet seen. And Four Loko in a cooler behind the bar. And whatever the occasion was, the DJs were playing awesome old soul music. The day before, the amazing "Up on the Roof" by the Drifters had spontaneously popped into my head. I asked one of the Lomax DJs, and she didn't think she had it. But then miraculously, at the stroke of midnight, its soulful harmonies emanated from the house PA. Seventh heaven. The place we went after was a bit classier, and correspondingly less memorable, but nevertheless, the night had been made.
What am I getting at with all of this? Simply that I want to live with this open-minded, spontaneous energy as much as possible. To create my days, brick by brick, with the whimsy of Mario making his way through the Mushroom Kingdom on his way to save Princess Toadstool. Two caveats: 1. Although I've emphasized bars, cafes, and restaurants, I feel that other venues of entertainment - amusement parks, caves, government buildings, jungles, etc., etc. - have not been properly exploited in the architecture of daily life. I want to extend creative living and wandering to all spheres. 2. Paradoxically, I'm well aware of the demands our current socio-political climate places on survival. We have to buy food, find shelter, go to the dentist, etc. These necessities don't necessarily jive with the free living I'm talking about, but... we can work on it, yeah? Build the new world in the shell of the old. Ideas reinforce practice, practice reinvigorates theory. And with a little bit of momentum, theory and practice together put a dent in the shell which hosts them. Thwomp.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Going to the store? But we live on a farm!
While living in Austin, one of my favorite activities was to scour the Chronicle (free weekly), pick a day with a number of art shows or gallery openings (usually Thursdays and Saturdays), and hit the town. My motivation, as I've explained before, was largely corporeal: to consume the greatest variety, the highest quality, and the largest number of free food and drink items. The art was a pleasant byproduct, at best. Dessert for the eyes, with the stomach already full.
So when I come across an art show in Boston, my mind is in the same place. Sure, I'll look at some paintings... while I'm eating my dinner. But whereas the warm weather and art-hubbed design of Austin are conducive to gallery crawls, Boston's art scene is more spread out. And in the winter, the idea of hitting multiple galleries is much less appealing. But I'll still give it a shot. Especially if I'm hungry.
Two Thursdays ago, I made it a point to head to Maverick Square in East Boston for a show at the Atlantic Works Gallery. What a unique neighborhood - located on the harbor, with streets named after English soccer clubs (I like to think that, but I'm guessing they're really named after the regions and cities that existed long before the clubs), and a smattering of old churches and warehouses amidst very new apartment buildings. It's changed quite a bit in the few years since I'd last been there, and by all accounts, so much more in the last two decades. Now I can go and hang out at Eddie C's - where the "house wine" is a jug of Carlo Rossi and the customers change the taps in the basement when they mysteriously run out of whatever cheap beer is on tap - before going to an excellent white-walled, cafe-sized Pakistani place with the best naan ever. Or to a huge moonlit warehouse on the water, with Atlantic Works housed on the third floor.
Up the stairs, in the door, and straight to the food... ugh, I was expecting more. Mixed nuts, crackers and a couple of cheeses, something like a pate, and a can of High Life for me. I'm still gonna need dinner when I leave here.
Despite multiple visits to the cheese table, Atlantic Works was not the satiating experience I had hoped for. But - in an unexpected and slightly ironic twist - the art quite made up for it. The exhibition, called "All Works Guaranteed Stolen," carried out this subtitle/mission statement: "celebrating the natural right of artists to 'steal' the intellectual 'property' they need to create their art." I saw a version of the iconic tri-color Obama poster, "Yes we can" replaced by "Maybe, we could've." Shepard Fairey was also the target of other biting artistic juxtapositions, as were Warhol and Time Warner, the latter claiming to own the "Happy Birthday" song, much to the chagrin of all the copyright-infringing birthday celebrators on YouTube. I even saw a mobile hanging from the ceiling, a word generator for artistic conversations like, "I appreciate the way the red splatter across the landscape represents mankind's eternal need for forgiveness." Funny stuff.
But my favorite was a take on Edvard Munch's classic The Scream (some times called The Cry) with the mask from Wes Craven's Scream films superimposed over Munch's anguished subject. I chuckled at that one. And even better, it allows me to segue into what I had meant to do in the last post, in which I attempted to describe the opera of alternately stifling and promising conditions embedded in a simple commute into the city. In The Revolution of Everyday Life, Vaneigem does an excellent job of portraying the more nightmarish aspects of the daily roller coaster ride, but he spends many pages doing so. Before my last post got so long, I had meant to excerpt some of his words to help define those nightmarish aspects. This post is now also quite long, but I'm gonna go ahead with the excerpts anyway:
"The endless minuet of humiliation and its response gives human relationships an obscene hobbling rhythm. In the ebb and flow of the crowds sucked in and crushed together by the coming and going of suburban trains, coughed out into streets, offices and factories, there is nothing but timid retreats, brutal attacks, smirking faces, and scratches delivered for no apparent reason. Soured by unwanted encounters, wine turns to vinegar in the mouth. Don't talk to me about innocent and good-natured crowds. Look how they bristle up, threatened on every side, clumsy and embarrassed in enemy territory, far, very far, from themselves. Lacking knives, they learn to use their elbows and their eyes as weapons[...]
"Remarks, gestures, glances tangle and collide, miss their aim, ricochet like bullets fired at random, killing even more surely by the continuous nervous tension they produce. All we can do is enclose ourselves in embarrassing parentheses; like these fingers (I am writing this on a cafe terrace) which slide the tip across the table and the fingers of the waiter which pick it up, while the faces of the two men involved, as if anxious to conceal the infamy which they have consented to, assume an expression of utter indifference[...]
"Malaise invades me as the crowd around me grows. The compromises I have made with stupidity, under the pressure of circumstances, rush to meet me, swimming towards me in hallucinating waves of faceless heads. Edvard Munch's famous painting, The Cry, evokes for me something I feel ten times a day. A man carried along by a crowd, which only he can see, suddenly screams out in an attempt to break the spell, to call himself back to himself, to get back inside his own skin. The tacit acknowledgments, fixed smiles, lifeless words, listlessness and humiliation sprinkled in his path suddenly surge into him, driving him out of his desires and his dreams and exploding the illusion of 'being together'[...]
"Everywhere neon signs are flashing out the dictum of Plotinus: All beings are together though each remains separate. But we only need to hold out our hands and touch one another, to raise our eyes and meet one another, and everything suddenly becomes near and far, as if by magic."
So that's the bad part, with a hint of the possibility for good at the end. As I said before, I believe in that possibility. But achieving it is not a simple matter. The simplest idea that I can ascribe to the journey toward achievement is that I think the good must be created at the same time as the the bad is rooted out. Ah... if only it were that simple.
So when I come across an art show in Boston, my mind is in the same place. Sure, I'll look at some paintings... while I'm eating my dinner. But whereas the warm weather and art-hubbed design of Austin are conducive to gallery crawls, Boston's art scene is more spread out. And in the winter, the idea of hitting multiple galleries is much less appealing. But I'll still give it a shot. Especially if I'm hungry.
Two Thursdays ago, I made it a point to head to Maverick Square in East Boston for a show at the Atlantic Works Gallery. What a unique neighborhood - located on the harbor, with streets named after English soccer clubs (I like to think that, but I'm guessing they're really named after the regions and cities that existed long before the clubs), and a smattering of old churches and warehouses amidst very new apartment buildings. It's changed quite a bit in the few years since I'd last been there, and by all accounts, so much more in the last two decades. Now I can go and hang out at Eddie C's - where the "house wine" is a jug of Carlo Rossi and the customers change the taps in the basement when they mysteriously run out of whatever cheap beer is on tap - before going to an excellent white-walled, cafe-sized Pakistani place with the best naan ever. Or to a huge moonlit warehouse on the water, with Atlantic Works housed on the third floor.
Up the stairs, in the door, and straight to the food... ugh, I was expecting more. Mixed nuts, crackers and a couple of cheeses, something like a pate, and a can of High Life for me. I'm still gonna need dinner when I leave here.
Despite multiple visits to the cheese table, Atlantic Works was not the satiating experience I had hoped for. But - in an unexpected and slightly ironic twist - the art quite made up for it. The exhibition, called "All Works Guaranteed Stolen," carried out this subtitle/mission statement: "celebrating the natural right of artists to 'steal' the intellectual 'property' they need to create their art." I saw a version of the iconic tri-color Obama poster, "Yes we can" replaced by "Maybe, we could've." Shepard Fairey was also the target of other biting artistic juxtapositions, as were Warhol and Time Warner, the latter claiming to own the "Happy Birthday" song, much to the chagrin of all the copyright-infringing birthday celebrators on YouTube. I even saw a mobile hanging from the ceiling, a word generator for artistic conversations like, "I appreciate the way the red splatter across the landscape represents mankind's eternal need for forgiveness." Funny stuff.
But my favorite was a take on Edvard Munch's classic The Scream (some times called The Cry) with the mask from Wes Craven's Scream films superimposed over Munch's anguished subject. I chuckled at that one. And even better, it allows me to segue into what I had meant to do in the last post, in which I attempted to describe the opera of alternately stifling and promising conditions embedded in a simple commute into the city. In The Revolution of Everyday Life, Vaneigem does an excellent job of portraying the more nightmarish aspects of the daily roller coaster ride, but he spends many pages doing so. Before my last post got so long, I had meant to excerpt some of his words to help define those nightmarish aspects. This post is now also quite long, but I'm gonna go ahead with the excerpts anyway:
"The endless minuet of humiliation and its response gives human relationships an obscene hobbling rhythm. In the ebb and flow of the crowds sucked in and crushed together by the coming and going of suburban trains, coughed out into streets, offices and factories, there is nothing but timid retreats, brutal attacks, smirking faces, and scratches delivered for no apparent reason. Soured by unwanted encounters, wine turns to vinegar in the mouth. Don't talk to me about innocent and good-natured crowds. Look how they bristle up, threatened on every side, clumsy and embarrassed in enemy territory, far, very far, from themselves. Lacking knives, they learn to use their elbows and their eyes as weapons[...]
"Remarks, gestures, glances tangle and collide, miss their aim, ricochet like bullets fired at random, killing even more surely by the continuous nervous tension they produce. All we can do is enclose ourselves in embarrassing parentheses; like these fingers (I am writing this on a cafe terrace) which slide the tip across the table and the fingers of the waiter which pick it up, while the faces of the two men involved, as if anxious to conceal the infamy which they have consented to, assume an expression of utter indifference[...]
"Malaise invades me as the crowd around me grows. The compromises I have made with stupidity, under the pressure of circumstances, rush to meet me, swimming towards me in hallucinating waves of faceless heads. Edvard Munch's famous painting, The Cry, evokes for me something I feel ten times a day. A man carried along by a crowd, which only he can see, suddenly screams out in an attempt to break the spell, to call himself back to himself, to get back inside his own skin. The tacit acknowledgments, fixed smiles, lifeless words, listlessness and humiliation sprinkled in his path suddenly surge into him, driving him out of his desires and his dreams and exploding the illusion of 'being together'[...]
"Everywhere neon signs are flashing out the dictum of Plotinus: All beings are together though each remains separate. But we only need to hold out our hands and touch one another, to raise our eyes and meet one another, and everything suddenly becomes near and far, as if by magic."
So that's the bad part, with a hint of the possibility for good at the end. As I said before, I believe in that possibility. But achieving it is not a simple matter. The simplest idea that I can ascribe to the journey toward achievement is that I think the good must be created at the same time as the the bad is rooted out. Ah... if only it were that simple.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Or even the turnstile line to get into the amusement park
Today I went into the city (Boston, that is) the earliest in the day I've gone in a while. Looking for part-time work, because the freelancing isn't quite cutting it yet. My commute took me on a roller coaster ride of trivial emotions, or semi-emotional trivialities, if you prefer. So I guess it was more of a Kiddie Coaster ride, in that sense. Or even a Tilt-A-Whirl, because those rides make me sick, and it's a bit nauseating how much of an effect modern alienated society can have on one.
Let's populate this ride with concrete examples. Rather than taking a bus, I walked the half hour to the T station. The brisk, fresh air and morning sun had a pleasant effect on me. On the other hand, with snow still covering the sidewalks in front of the Von Trapp estates on Adams Street, I had to cross the road several times. Walking against traffic, I feel the need to avoid eye contact with drivers on this long, wide road - a hangover from Austin - those times when I feel like I'm the only one walking, that I should be driving this road, and that I'm isolated because I'm on foot. But then a group of girls jogging in my direction... but still not fully awake, I awkwardly step aside, though it's completely unnecessary. Avoid eye contact with them too.
At Quincy Station, I arrive just in time for the train. Good. But I get on it with a group of - no other way to say it - douchebags, male and female. One guy in particular, continually mimicking the driver's announcements ("Doors will open on your left"), at every stop, every utterance at top volume level, heard throughout the train - "fawkin'" this, "those faggots" - incessant trash talk, inescapable for the rest of us, the other passengers. The type of guy who will compliment you on an unusual item of clothing, but snicker to himself with the superiority of boisterous narcissism. And he's so loud that I can't even concentrate on reading the paper. Plus some other guy sits down right next to me, in an otherwise empty row of seats. He's crowding me, and I find it completely unnecessary. O bother!
But okay. Make the Red-to-Orange transfer in fine time - but only by avoiding a guy who just wants "ten seconds" of my time for a survey or a donation to the only charity that matters - and I'm at my place of interview. Then it's the furtive glances, trying to find the right floor, the right room. Being an outsider, but trying not to look like one. Orientation is such a challenge! But I get to the right room and, although the two pages of my outdated resume (which I hadn't thought I would need) are stuck together (victims of water damage), I find myself talking naturally, quite at ease. Words come out of my mouth rapidly, but they all seem to make sense... how often does that happen to me at job interviews? A pleasant, quick one. End with a smile.
Good. I know my way out of the building now, and I'm back on the train. A couple stops later, an old lady and two middle-aged women get on the train. The old one sits between me and the door, the other two stand next to her. I hesitate - a definitive subway etiquette does not exist, and I usually find it easier to feign ignorance of my fellow passengers - but seeing that the three women are talking together, I offer my seat to one. She's quite happy, I'm happy, and any perceived tension has been defused.
Getting on the Red Line, some dufus starts walking onto the train before any one has gotten off, blocking their path. But then, a quite large man gestures for me to get on in front of him, out of politeness. Thank you, kind sir. But then... the ever-present question of eye contact looking out the windows on the long train ride back to Quincy. But then, at Quincy Center, no rush to catch a bus (I will walk back home too), so I'm whistling Dixie. But THEN, the snowy sidewalks, and the oncoming traffic....
...Avoiding eye contact, getting in the way, trying to get out of the way, where to stand, where to sit, how to act, how to live, and on and on and on....
What's the solution? There are some people that believe that when we eliminate the hallmarks of our alienated society - consumption, spectacle, idolatry, the media behemoth, representative politics, etc., etc. - we will eliminate its symptoms and results... like social anxiety, public isolation, boredom in daily life, crushing crowds, and so on and so forth. I think that I count myself among the believers in that theory (however vaguely I just summarized it), that I am starting to work toward said elimination, and that I would like to do much more in that realm. In the meantime, when I do find myself out in this cold world (so to speak), if I can remember to borrow an idea from the Buddhists, I feel much better about everything.
Just to know that I am breathing.
Let's populate this ride with concrete examples. Rather than taking a bus, I walked the half hour to the T station. The brisk, fresh air and morning sun had a pleasant effect on me. On the other hand, with snow still covering the sidewalks in front of the Von Trapp estates on Adams Street, I had to cross the road several times. Walking against traffic, I feel the need to avoid eye contact with drivers on this long, wide road - a hangover from Austin - those times when I feel like I'm the only one walking, that I should be driving this road, and that I'm isolated because I'm on foot. But then a group of girls jogging in my direction... but still not fully awake, I awkwardly step aside, though it's completely unnecessary. Avoid eye contact with them too.
At Quincy Station, I arrive just in time for the train. Good. But I get on it with a group of - no other way to say it - douchebags, male and female. One guy in particular, continually mimicking the driver's announcements ("Doors will open on your left"), at every stop, every utterance at top volume level, heard throughout the train - "fawkin'" this, "those faggots" - incessant trash talk, inescapable for the rest of us, the other passengers. The type of guy who will compliment you on an unusual item of clothing, but snicker to himself with the superiority of boisterous narcissism. And he's so loud that I can't even concentrate on reading the paper. Plus some other guy sits down right next to me, in an otherwise empty row of seats. He's crowding me, and I find it completely unnecessary. O bother!
But okay. Make the Red-to-Orange transfer in fine time - but only by avoiding a guy who just wants "ten seconds" of my time for a survey or a donation to the only charity that matters - and I'm at my place of interview. Then it's the furtive glances, trying to find the right floor, the right room. Being an outsider, but trying not to look like one. Orientation is such a challenge! But I get to the right room and, although the two pages of my outdated resume (which I hadn't thought I would need) are stuck together (victims of water damage), I find myself talking naturally, quite at ease. Words come out of my mouth rapidly, but they all seem to make sense... how often does that happen to me at job interviews? A pleasant, quick one. End with a smile.
Good. I know my way out of the building now, and I'm back on the train. A couple stops later, an old lady and two middle-aged women get on the train. The old one sits between me and the door, the other two stand next to her. I hesitate - a definitive subway etiquette does not exist, and I usually find it easier to feign ignorance of my fellow passengers - but seeing that the three women are talking together, I offer my seat to one. She's quite happy, I'm happy, and any perceived tension has been defused.
Getting on the Red Line, some dufus starts walking onto the train before any one has gotten off, blocking their path. But then, a quite large man gestures for me to get on in front of him, out of politeness. Thank you, kind sir. But then... the ever-present question of eye contact looking out the windows on the long train ride back to Quincy. But then, at Quincy Center, no rush to catch a bus (I will walk back home too), so I'm whistling Dixie. But THEN, the snowy sidewalks, and the oncoming traffic....
...Avoiding eye contact, getting in the way, trying to get out of the way, where to stand, where to sit, how to act, how to live, and on and on and on....
What's the solution? There are some people that believe that when we eliminate the hallmarks of our alienated society - consumption, spectacle, idolatry, the media behemoth, representative politics, etc., etc. - we will eliminate its symptoms and results... like social anxiety, public isolation, boredom in daily life, crushing crowds, and so on and so forth. I think that I count myself among the believers in that theory (however vaguely I just summarized it), that I am starting to work toward said elimination, and that I would like to do much more in that realm. In the meantime, when I do find myself out in this cold world (so to speak), if I can remember to borrow an idea from the Buddhists, I feel much better about everything.
Just to know that I am breathing.
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