Animal space
I know, I know; check out this breakneck pace of mine!
This is inspired by my not wanting to hijack the comments section in a post someone of my Friends list made, in which she said: "It's a small ting to be whiny about, i know. But there can be no spontaneity, no last minute "What are you doing right now?"s, and no one whose house I can run to quickly when shit goes down."
I don't think it's a small thing at all. In fact, that transition, from being two minutes from everyone close to me to having my loved ones spread to different continents, has been one of the most difficult and challenging transitions I've faced.
I lived in the dorms all four years of college, and I thrived in a dormitory setting. Granted, I was lucky enough to live alone in the dorms for the last two years (the all male-dorm I lived in was not a popular one on my campus), but even when I lived with other guys, I just felt really comfortable. I loved being able to stop by someone's room on a whim. I loved knowing approximately where everyone I loved was at any given moment. I loved my friends being able to get into my room when I wasn't there and borrow stuff. Really.
It worked for me at a basic level. I found that sort of community satisfying in a primate way -- I felt comfortable as a member of the tribe. I liked falling asleep near others. I liked knowing where every member of my tribe was at every moment. I liked communal meals. All of this resonated with me at a surprisingly primal level (Ian, I was wrong -- I do have a primal self). Moreover, I don't think I'm the only one.
There are two benches outside the American Apparel store in Hillcrest. No where else has benches that people can just sit on and be. Nowhere else has those, because they don't make any sense in a modern, mobile world like contemporary America. The idea of providing a space for any members of the community to gather together doesn't make sense because communities aren't organized by physical proximity anymore. They're organized by interests, or common cause, or common identity. But not by the simple fact that we live near one another.
And I think that the mobility of modern industrial (or, post-industrial, which arguably exacerbates all this) society is what fosters this. Communities formed by proximity don't make sense because they're transitory. People move. All the time. And that constant movement makes it impossible for proximity to lead to the sort of commonalities around which communities now form. If we don't feel comfortable somewhere, we leave, either physically or emotionally. We check out of our local communities in favor of online communities, or republics of letters, or friends and family far away.
All of which are good, and terrific, and hooray for modern telecommunications allowing us this option. But it's not the same. Chatting with friends on IM is not being in the same room with them. And in the end, I don't think it's just the nonverbal elements of communitcation that get lost. It's other stuff. It's touch. It's smell. It's something, well, more primal, or, maybe, tribal
There ain't no going back, though, and I'm not sure going back would be good even if we could. Small towns in which no one ever comes or goes can get too insular. Travel is important. Exposure to difference is important. Diversity and pluralism (both of which are at risk in the small, insular town) are important. But sometimes (okay, given the distance some of my loved one are from me, frequently), I really *feel* the tradeoffs involved.
So, no. No, I don't think it's a small thing. For me, at least, it's a big thing. It's been a big thing, and it's still a big thing, and I think it's a big thing for an awful lot of people, and we don't want to talk about it because it makes us look vulnerable and silly, and we don't have good words to describe why we want our people around us, but those aches are still there.
So if you're distant, if we can't smell each other, remember how much I love you, and how much I miss you, and we'll see each other soon.
This is inspired by my not wanting to hijack the comments section in a post someone of my Friends list made, in which she said: "It's a small ting to be whiny about, i know. But there can be no spontaneity, no last minute "What are you doing right now?"s, and no one whose house I can run to quickly when shit goes down."
I don't think it's a small thing at all. In fact, that transition, from being two minutes from everyone close to me to having my loved ones spread to different continents, has been one of the most difficult and challenging transitions I've faced.
I lived in the dorms all four years of college, and I thrived in a dormitory setting. Granted, I was lucky enough to live alone in the dorms for the last two years (the all male-dorm I lived in was not a popular one on my campus), but even when I lived with other guys, I just felt really comfortable. I loved being able to stop by someone's room on a whim. I loved knowing approximately where everyone I loved was at any given moment. I loved my friends being able to get into my room when I wasn't there and borrow stuff. Really.
It worked for me at a basic level. I found that sort of community satisfying in a primate way -- I felt comfortable as a member of the tribe. I liked falling asleep near others. I liked knowing where every member of my tribe was at every moment. I liked communal meals. All of this resonated with me at a surprisingly primal level (Ian, I was wrong -- I do have a primal self). Moreover, I don't think I'm the only one.
There are two benches outside the American Apparel store in Hillcrest. No where else has benches that people can just sit on and be. Nowhere else has those, because they don't make any sense in a modern, mobile world like contemporary America. The idea of providing a space for any members of the community to gather together doesn't make sense because communities aren't organized by physical proximity anymore. They're organized by interests, or common cause, or common identity. But not by the simple fact that we live near one another.
And I think that the mobility of modern industrial (or, post-industrial, which arguably exacerbates all this) society is what fosters this. Communities formed by proximity don't make sense because they're transitory. People move. All the time. And that constant movement makes it impossible for proximity to lead to the sort of commonalities around which communities now form. If we don't feel comfortable somewhere, we leave, either physically or emotionally. We check out of our local communities in favor of online communities, or republics of letters, or friends and family far away.
All of which are good, and terrific, and hooray for modern telecommunications allowing us this option. But it's not the same. Chatting with friends on IM is not being in the same room with them. And in the end, I don't think it's just the nonverbal elements of communitcation that get lost. It's other stuff. It's touch. It's smell. It's something, well, more primal, or, maybe, tribal
There ain't no going back, though, and I'm not sure going back would be good even if we could. Small towns in which no one ever comes or goes can get too insular. Travel is important. Exposure to difference is important. Diversity and pluralism (both of which are at risk in the small, insular town) are important. But sometimes (okay, given the distance some of my loved one are from me, frequently), I really *feel* the tradeoffs involved.
So, no. No, I don't think it's a small thing. For me, at least, it's a big thing. It's been a big thing, and it's still a big thing, and I think it's a big thing for an awful lot of people, and we don't want to talk about it because it makes us look vulnerable and silly, and we don't have good words to describe why we want our people around us, but those aches are still there.
So if you're distant, if we can't smell each other, remember how much I love you, and how much I miss you, and we'll see each other soon.