Alone in my head until it bursts
This entry is cut because it's long and feels very personal to me. You are welcome to read, comment, and disagree. I don't necessarily believe all of this -just a compilation of thoughts. I'm very interested to hear other perspectives.
I love being alone. Or at least as far as human beings are concerned --having animals around, such as my dog and bunnies, is always extremely comforting to me. I can play my own music all day (even if it's the same song on repeat), set my own schedule, eat and drink what I want, hide when i feel like it, go out when i feel like it, be bare-faced or wear a lot of dark make-up, walk around naked or wear the same grungy clothes, talk to myself, spontaneaously cry when i feel moved to, or burst out laughing without explanation.
This week, I'm listening to a book series that I am completely and utterly addicted to. I have the story going all day ---while I cook, eat, clean, run, exercise, wash the dog, pack. I alternate between playing it on my laptop and playing it on my ipod and headphones depending on what's more convenient. I've been going through a book a day (and neglecting my other book that I actually have to read). Sure my obsession is a bit pathetic --i had a long, complex dream about some of the characters last night and was extremely disappointed when i woke up --but no one is around to judge or be fed up with me, so I'm content. Generally, I'm very comfortable alone with myself (sounds redundant?).
Nonetheless, there are downsides to solitude. Being alone with your own thoughts and fantasies can be dangerous sometimes. Even though background noise and storylines can muffle these a bit, they're always lingering in the air. Sometimes it hurts --like sloughing off layers of skin and exposing angry, bleeding flesh underneath. Last night's conversation (with another person) left me feeling raw. Not because it was particularily depressing or sad, but because of vulnerability, I think. And not the vulnerability of someone else knowing my "weakness" or insecurity but vulnerability in general --to myself, the elements, the world. The feeling of having the rug pulled out from under you and realizing there is no ground beneath you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mindfulness
We were talking about mindfulness, mostly. The concepts of transience and permanence, dropping our own internal personal "storylines," and about compiling experiences, grief, jadedness and cynicism. I used to consider myself idealistic, or specifically, a "realistic idealist," and now I almost snicker at the concept. Idealism is a much more abstract idea in my mind now. Sometimes I really dislike myself for this change. I think to myself that I liked "who I was" more than "who I am." What a stupid and selfish preoccupation. And worse, I fear being judged for this change. And I fear being judged for the preoccupation. And then I get angry at myself for the fear, for the selfishness, and for getting so angry and wrapped up in all of it! Letting go isn't so easy. Neither is realizing that.
As peaceful and comfortable as isolation is, we also seek an external connection and comprehension. We are not encapsulated individuals floating in our own personal bubble. We affect the world and the world affects us. We leave our "comfortable" shells and attempt to connect with another human being, philosophically, emotionally, physically. Sexuality may enable the [fleeting] illusion, through the physical contact, release of massive amounts of endorphins, and mutual gratification. But we come closest to achieving the "true" connection when we are outside of ourselves. For me, when I run, when i become engrossed in music and dance. I'm not just "me running" or "me dancing," I Am the air that comes in and out of my lungs, air that's absorbed and travels throughout my entire body to nourish and give life to every cell and is then released back to the atmosphere. I am the sound of the rustling leaving, singing birds, invisible vibrations that enter my ears and stimulate some hidden part of my brain. The intoxicating scent of pine that clears may nasal passages and somehow makes me tingle all over. The wind that howls into my ears and brushes my skin. The dirt and mud that spray and darken my ankles and calves. The sweat that drips out of my pores and absorbs back to the earth. The flowing music that lifts me, spins me, cradles me, then oozes out of my skin in a thousand colors. But when I'm there, I'm not thinking about any of those things, because they are no longer individual sensations, just extensions.
As an annex to that thought. The social gatherings I've most enjoyed are the ones where I somehow stop thinking about what to say, what to do, and actually fully enjoy the other people there. That is of course much more easily said than done, at least for me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nietzsche and the truth that destroys us
A lot of our conversations have revolved around a Nietzsche quote we first encountered in the book "Divisadero" by Michael Ondaatje (author of The English Patient). "'We have art,' Nietzsche said, 'so that we shall not be destroyed by the truth."' Painfully true?
The literal statement never held truer to me than when I was reading a book a week while i was in peace corps. I craved those books and stories as very real escapes from my disillusion and bitterness. I read books that I would probably have never otherwise gotten through and enjoyed as much. But I was so desperate to depart from my bored reality that any piece of writing was a truly cherished haven. Anytime I was home, if I wasn't reading on my hammock, I was sleeping as much as I could (12 hours a night). I just didn't want to deal with anything. And reading really helped keep me sane (along with a couple of close friends). I probably never mentioned certain things --I'm actually embarrassed to think about. Fortunately only one other person ever saw those. I will refrain from another rant on the redicularity and disorganization of the pc beaurocracy. Back to Nietzche...
Let's think about the reasons art is created and appreciated. It's an attempt to capture something --beauty, emotion, time. All fleeting. Capturing these glorifies their significance. Maybe they are significant. But, when you create a piece of art, whatever the media (painting, music, dance, language), everything else is blocked out to focus in on the subject, however abstract. It becomes a reality on some level, a story, an escape. and it's beautiful. When you zoom back out, that element seems pretty insignificant in the grander scheme of things, although it isn't necessarily, depending on your perspective. When I dance, I feel that I can convey parts of myself that i can never otherwise express. Even when I'm completely alone, i somehow feel that by expressing these elements in my dance, i share them with someone. When I admire a painting, everything else fades aways. When I watched one of the performers at Cirque du Soleil last week, tears were streaming down my face --because it was so beautiful. I've become addicted to urban fantasy and I live in that world when I read. Likewise, I love living in my dreams, even after I wake. It gives purpose and meaningfulness to life. But it's fabricated. Art creates order, even the most abstract disorganized art. it's like a label -beautiful, troubled, chaotic - only not as concrete. and thus it creates the illusion of capturing and defining the evanescent and undefinable, and ignores everything else.
From the broader perspective, art is fabrication, often when we look back on past chapters of our life it feels as if we were looking back on a story. It's hard to believe they occured, that we were that person, or that our story evolved into the present. Not necessarily that we're so drastically different now than we were then, but perhaps that we thought or felt a certain way, or that experience shaped us contrary to what we believed. We live in an illusion of reality, in a fabricated story in our heads to justify our state and grandify our existence. We believe that we are on some philosophical path to becoming x or y. Or we wonder how we ever got to be here, when we're supposed to be doing y and z right now. But we're not supposed to be anywhere but right where we are. Our internal fabrications keep us from dealing with reality. We get stuck in our stories of the past and future, when truth is much more abstract than the linear story we'd like it to be. I'm doing a horrible job at explaining (anyone else care to try?). The point is, and it's a fuzzy one, that our lives are much less significant. Truth is the perpetual and growing pain, destruction, and horror combined alongside beauty and peace that are very fleeting and fragile. It hurts and destroys us to realize that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When we drop our storylines, and get out of ourselves, what's left? the rug is gone.
I was going to have another section on Death, but this is long enough. So maybe later.
I love being alone. Or at least as far as human beings are concerned --having animals around, such as my dog and bunnies, is always extremely comforting to me. I can play my own music all day (even if it's the same song on repeat), set my own schedule, eat and drink what I want, hide when i feel like it, go out when i feel like it, be bare-faced or wear a lot of dark make-up, walk around naked or wear the same grungy clothes, talk to myself, spontaneaously cry when i feel moved to, or burst out laughing without explanation.
This week, I'm listening to a book series that I am completely and utterly addicted to. I have the story going all day ---while I cook, eat, clean, run, exercise, wash the dog, pack. I alternate between playing it on my laptop and playing it on my ipod and headphones depending on what's more convenient. I've been going through a book a day (and neglecting my other book that I actually have to read). Sure my obsession is a bit pathetic --i had a long, complex dream about some of the characters last night and was extremely disappointed when i woke up --but no one is around to judge or be fed up with me, so I'm content. Generally, I'm very comfortable alone with myself (sounds redundant?).
Nonetheless, there are downsides to solitude. Being alone with your own thoughts and fantasies can be dangerous sometimes. Even though background noise and storylines can muffle these a bit, they're always lingering in the air. Sometimes it hurts --like sloughing off layers of skin and exposing angry, bleeding flesh underneath. Last night's conversation (with another person) left me feeling raw. Not because it was particularily depressing or sad, but because of vulnerability, I think. And not the vulnerability of someone else knowing my "weakness" or insecurity but vulnerability in general --to myself, the elements, the world. The feeling of having the rug pulled out from under you and realizing there is no ground beneath you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mindfulness
We were talking about mindfulness, mostly. The concepts of transience and permanence, dropping our own internal personal "storylines," and about compiling experiences, grief, jadedness and cynicism. I used to consider myself idealistic, or specifically, a "realistic idealist," and now I almost snicker at the concept. Idealism is a much more abstract idea in my mind now. Sometimes I really dislike myself for this change. I think to myself that I liked "who I was" more than "who I am." What a stupid and selfish preoccupation. And worse, I fear being judged for this change. And I fear being judged for the preoccupation. And then I get angry at myself for the fear, for the selfishness, and for getting so angry and wrapped up in all of it! Letting go isn't so easy. Neither is realizing that.
As peaceful and comfortable as isolation is, we also seek an external connection and comprehension. We are not encapsulated individuals floating in our own personal bubble. We affect the world and the world affects us. We leave our "comfortable" shells and attempt to connect with another human being, philosophically, emotionally, physically. Sexuality may enable the [fleeting] illusion, through the physical contact, release of massive amounts of endorphins, and mutual gratification. But we come closest to achieving the "true" connection when we are outside of ourselves. For me, when I run, when i become engrossed in music and dance. I'm not just "me running" or "me dancing," I Am the air that comes in and out of my lungs, air that's absorbed and travels throughout my entire body to nourish and give life to every cell and is then released back to the atmosphere. I am the sound of the rustling leaving, singing birds, invisible vibrations that enter my ears and stimulate some hidden part of my brain. The intoxicating scent of pine that clears may nasal passages and somehow makes me tingle all over. The wind that howls into my ears and brushes my skin. The dirt and mud that spray and darken my ankles and calves. The sweat that drips out of my pores and absorbs back to the earth. The flowing music that lifts me, spins me, cradles me, then oozes out of my skin in a thousand colors. But when I'm there, I'm not thinking about any of those things, because they are no longer individual sensations, just extensions.
As an annex to that thought. The social gatherings I've most enjoyed are the ones where I somehow stop thinking about what to say, what to do, and actually fully enjoy the other people there. That is of course much more easily said than done, at least for me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nietzsche and the truth that destroys us
A lot of our conversations have revolved around a Nietzsche quote we first encountered in the book "Divisadero" by Michael Ondaatje (author of The English Patient). "'We have art,' Nietzsche said, 'so that we shall not be destroyed by the truth."' Painfully true?
The literal statement never held truer to me than when I was reading a book a week while i was in peace corps. I craved those books and stories as very real escapes from my disillusion and bitterness. I read books that I would probably have never otherwise gotten through and enjoyed as much. But I was so desperate to depart from my bored reality that any piece of writing was a truly cherished haven. Anytime I was home, if I wasn't reading on my hammock, I was sleeping as much as I could (12 hours a night). I just didn't want to deal with anything. And reading really helped keep me sane (along with a couple of close friends). I probably never mentioned certain things --I'm actually embarrassed to think about. Fortunately only one other person ever saw those. I will refrain from another rant on the redicularity and disorganization of the pc beaurocracy. Back to Nietzche...
Let's think about the reasons art is created and appreciated. It's an attempt to capture something --beauty, emotion, time. All fleeting. Capturing these glorifies their significance. Maybe they are significant. But, when you create a piece of art, whatever the media (painting, music, dance, language), everything else is blocked out to focus in on the subject, however abstract. It becomes a reality on some level, a story, an escape. and it's beautiful. When you zoom back out, that element seems pretty insignificant in the grander scheme of things, although it isn't necessarily, depending on your perspective. When I dance, I feel that I can convey parts of myself that i can never otherwise express. Even when I'm completely alone, i somehow feel that by expressing these elements in my dance, i share them with someone. When I admire a painting, everything else fades aways. When I watched one of the performers at Cirque du Soleil last week, tears were streaming down my face --because it was so beautiful. I've become addicted to urban fantasy and I live in that world when I read. Likewise, I love living in my dreams, even after I wake. It gives purpose and meaningfulness to life. But it's fabricated. Art creates order, even the most abstract disorganized art. it's like a label -beautiful, troubled, chaotic - only not as concrete. and thus it creates the illusion of capturing and defining the evanescent and undefinable, and ignores everything else.
From the broader perspective, art is fabrication, often when we look back on past chapters of our life it feels as if we were looking back on a story. It's hard to believe they occured, that we were that person, or that our story evolved into the present. Not necessarily that we're so drastically different now than we were then, but perhaps that we thought or felt a certain way, or that experience shaped us contrary to what we believed. We live in an illusion of reality, in a fabricated story in our heads to justify our state and grandify our existence. We believe that we are on some philosophical path to becoming x or y. Or we wonder how we ever got to be here, when we're supposed to be doing y and z right now. But we're not supposed to be anywhere but right where we are. Our internal fabrications keep us from dealing with reality. We get stuck in our stories of the past and future, when truth is much more abstract than the linear story we'd like it to be. I'm doing a horrible job at explaining (anyone else care to try?). The point is, and it's a fuzzy one, that our lives are much less significant. Truth is the perpetual and growing pain, destruction, and horror combined alongside beauty and peace that are very fleeting and fragile. It hurts and destroys us to realize that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When we drop our storylines, and get out of ourselves, what's left? the rug is gone.
I was going to have another section on Death, but this is long enough. So maybe later.