My Hungry Ghost,
"Need and struggle are what excite and inspire us: it's our hour of triumph that brings the void." --W. James
That's objectively true, right? Isn't it times like the one you're describing that bring out the best in us? The times when you feel like you might stop breathing at any moment? The times when academia, friends, family, lovers, pull you apart in so many directions that it just doesn't feel like enough molecules comprise your body? The times when you feel like simultaneous implosion and explosion is imminent? Of course--it's only "the best" in retrospect. I think James probably knew that when he penned that particular quote. I don't think he was so naive as to think that "need and struggle" are actually enjoyable--but they are the times that we reflect on with pride and fondness in some strange, masochistic way.
trans⋅par⋅en⋅cy
–noun, plural -cies.
1. the quality or state of being transparent.
2. something transparent, esp. a picture, design, or the like on glass or some translucent substance, made visible by light shining through from behind.
3. Photography.
a. the proportion of the light that is passed through the emulsion on an area of a photographic image.
b. a photographic print on a clear base for viewing by transmitted light.
I feel like that sometimes--only sometimes, and with some people. Like a photographic print on a clear base, constructed specifically to be viewed by transmitted light. Like I have to be held at the correct angle with respect to the sun in order to be seen correctly and fully. Like not many people know what angle that is. Like I'm glad that they don't. Like I think maybe you do, and I can think of maybe two others (maybe. barely.). Like I think I'm glad that it's only a few that can see through these awkward mannerisms, and inappropriate facial expressions and beyond to what's creating them.
I think I have a new (or at least new to me) metaphor for you, and I think it's a little more accurate, a little more precise than the others: LOVE IS DESTRUCTION, which can translate to LOVE IS FALLING, LOVE IS INFECTION, LOVE IS INSANITY. I especially like thinking in terms of infection... Love/infatuation as an illness that needs to be cured. Like you have some infection that's making you incredibly feverish and irrational, and you just want to shake it so that you can start to see life and people through a clearer lens? Through the lens you used to use? Objectivity is such a need for me. To have my objective skills bound like this is intolerable. My pro/con lists feel useless. Everything feels like it's happening outside of me and my experience. This thing, this infection, has taken a life of its own, and I'm not sure what it's doing, where it's heading, what organs it's shut down, which tissues it's planning to invade next. I'm not sure how close I am to death.
(Have I taken the metaphor too far yet?)
It's not just "social" infatuation that does this either, I'm including "parasocial" infatuation as a possible catalyst too. It too can blind you, distort your priorities, change your self-concept in ways that are disproportionate. House made me forget that sociality is important to people for a reason. Rube (Dead Like Me) made me forget that I'm alive. Paul (In Treatment) made me forget that I rejected Freud long ago, and that I don't blame my parents for every neurosis that plagues me. Each infatuation infected me severely (I think that you, unlike some others, will not judge me for talking about television in these terms--I think you understand), and I'll never be the same because of them.
I miss you, lover. I'd like to talk soon. I'd like to take turns holding each other up to the light.
--M. Curie.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
My perfect complimentary self,
Life often seems to sneak up on me when I feel I’m most prepared to divide and conquer its ranks of deadlines and demands. Before I know it, I’m up to my eyeballs in a stagnating stew of uncertainty and doubt. The days seem to be getting shorter & shorter all the while and there just aren’t enough hours in the day anymore.
Then there are the occasional breaks of deep contemplative insight or the like. I catch a glimpse of what I’m grasping for in the darkness. I remember how beautiful it can be when the goal is in sight. The unadulterated bliss of motivation fuels my will to endure; implicit motivation, of course. I’m struggling to find that. I’m just reaching a point in the semester when there appears to be a fine focusing of relevance/revelation. Graduation is now a more attainable goal. I put a lot on my plate and tend to juggle so many little things; I lose sight of the longer-term goals.
Also, lately I’m realizing that I have such an abundance of love letters to ex’s. Or, more specifically “dear john” letters. The kind you write to get it all out in hopes that you’ll feel better after; In hopes that you’ll feel some kind of solid closure. Except, in most cases, the “other man” I’d found was myself. Most of them never leave my computer after their initial drafts. I wouldn’t really consider many of them “done” or ready for sending. I typically only write enough to feel I’ve purged the unrequited feelings adequately.
To merge those two unrelated ideas with another seemingly random segue way, nothing is so encouraging or motivating as a letter from you, my love. They are, in many ways the opposite of these letters I seem to collect. I feel understood and acknowledged. You’ve got a knack for soothing my fears and reassuring (or at least entertaining) my hopes. I only hope I can do the same for you.
Infatuation is quite a funny beast.
I have a couple of Steven Pinker books I keep meaning to mine.
I remember hearing once a couple of years ago (and perhaps I’ve told you this already) that we developed our humanness from the particular proteins of cooked meat. The details and source of this theory have become increasingly fuzzy over the years; So much so that I’m not sure if I dreamed it up in a National Geographic special. The basic idea though, is that fire changed the composition of meat in a way that (over some time) changed the way our brain was structured and functioned. It has stuck with me for quite a while and I’m content that there’s at least some connection there. We are, after all, the only animals that cook our meat; or decide to become vegetarians, decide to eat only kosher, decide not to eat at all from sunrise to sunset or decide that a cow is too holy to even consider eating. We are the only creatures that really seem to decide anything, because we do what we want. This includes thinking abstractly/in metaphors, just generally being anomalies and becoming infatuated.
I wonder what Pinker would have to say about the origin of our gods. That would certainly seem to be the biggest metaphor of all. A mirror of ourselves, reflecting back all of our imperfections and inadequacies. Our ultimate collective critic.
More specifically than just being easily infatuated, I’m more concerned with my collection (again with the collecting) of parasocial relationships. Although, I guess most of them wouldn’t actually be parasocial; I mean, most of them know about me. I have quite a few “friends” on a certain networking site. There are many who I’ve never met in person, but many more who I only know in passing, having met only once or twice. It isn’t the actual person I’m having a relationship with, however, but the person who is presented in the “about me” and “interests” and “movies” and so on. In this way, we get along quite nicely in the memories I make up for us in my head. They are the most perfect friends because my assumptions of them are always correct & they always live up to my expectations. I promise it really isn’t as bad/pathetic as it sounds. All this happens without me putting too much thought into it. I haven’t had any imaginary (or real) tea parties with these hypothetical friends. Yet.
I really rather like this idea that Pinker presents, though. How could we live in a world composed of anything less than metaphors? When I really think about it, I can see the association with love and falling. Metaphorically, of course. If you think about literally falling, you are usually quite vulnerable after a fall. You’re on the ground, possibly hurt or disoriented, cursing whatever it was that made you fall. In that sense, you are not so much yourself. Your “self” being the enduring qualities you think of as uniquely “yours.” You are operating on more adrenaline and more raw human chemicals. So, I guess in that sense, you’re a lot more human even though not so much the unique human you’ve been conditioned to recognize. I’ve always liked the analogy of love with being on a merry go round (the kind you spin around on in parks) for the same reasons. It makes you dizzy/disoriented, you can fall off and hurt yourself, but it feels really good if you do it right or at least while it lasts. In this case, falling WOULD be the heartbreak.
--Vertigo
Life often seems to sneak up on me when I feel I’m most prepared to divide and conquer its ranks of deadlines and demands. Before I know it, I’m up to my eyeballs in a stagnating stew of uncertainty and doubt. The days seem to be getting shorter & shorter all the while and there just aren’t enough hours in the day anymore.
Then there are the occasional breaks of deep contemplative insight or the like. I catch a glimpse of what I’m grasping for in the darkness. I remember how beautiful it can be when the goal is in sight. The unadulterated bliss of motivation fuels my will to endure; implicit motivation, of course. I’m struggling to find that. I’m just reaching a point in the semester when there appears to be a fine focusing of relevance/revelation. Graduation is now a more attainable goal. I put a lot on my plate and tend to juggle so many little things; I lose sight of the longer-term goals.
Also, lately I’m realizing that I have such an abundance of love letters to ex’s. Or, more specifically “dear john” letters. The kind you write to get it all out in hopes that you’ll feel better after; In hopes that you’ll feel some kind of solid closure. Except, in most cases, the “other man” I’d found was myself. Most of them never leave my computer after their initial drafts. I wouldn’t really consider many of them “done” or ready for sending. I typically only write enough to feel I’ve purged the unrequited feelings adequately.
To merge those two unrelated ideas with another seemingly random segue way, nothing is so encouraging or motivating as a letter from you, my love. They are, in many ways the opposite of these letters I seem to collect. I feel understood and acknowledged. You’ve got a knack for soothing my fears and reassuring (or at least entertaining) my hopes. I only hope I can do the same for you.
Infatuation is quite a funny beast.
I have a couple of Steven Pinker books I keep meaning to mine.
I remember hearing once a couple of years ago (and perhaps I’ve told you this already) that we developed our humanness from the particular proteins of cooked meat. The details and source of this theory have become increasingly fuzzy over the years; So much so that I’m not sure if I dreamed it up in a National Geographic special. The basic idea though, is that fire changed the composition of meat in a way that (over some time) changed the way our brain was structured and functioned. It has stuck with me for quite a while and I’m content that there’s at least some connection there. We are, after all, the only animals that cook our meat; or decide to become vegetarians, decide to eat only kosher, decide not to eat at all from sunrise to sunset or decide that a cow is too holy to even consider eating. We are the only creatures that really seem to decide anything, because we do what we want. This includes thinking abstractly/in metaphors, just generally being anomalies and becoming infatuated.
I wonder what Pinker would have to say about the origin of our gods. That would certainly seem to be the biggest metaphor of all. A mirror of ourselves, reflecting back all of our imperfections and inadequacies. Our ultimate collective critic.
More specifically than just being easily infatuated, I’m more concerned with my collection (again with the collecting) of parasocial relationships. Although, I guess most of them wouldn’t actually be parasocial; I mean, most of them know about me. I have quite a few “friends” on a certain networking site. There are many who I’ve never met in person, but many more who I only know in passing, having met only once or twice. It isn’t the actual person I’m having a relationship with, however, but the person who is presented in the “about me” and “interests” and “movies” and so on. In this way, we get along quite nicely in the memories I make up for us in my head. They are the most perfect friends because my assumptions of them are always correct & they always live up to my expectations. I promise it really isn’t as bad/pathetic as it sounds. All this happens without me putting too much thought into it. I haven’t had any imaginary (or real) tea parties with these hypothetical friends. Yet.
I really rather like this idea that Pinker presents, though. How could we live in a world composed of anything less than metaphors? When I really think about it, I can see the association with love and falling. Metaphorically, of course. If you think about literally falling, you are usually quite vulnerable after a fall. You’re on the ground, possibly hurt or disoriented, cursing whatever it was that made you fall. In that sense, you are not so much yourself. Your “self” being the enduring qualities you think of as uniquely “yours.” You are operating on more adrenaline and more raw human chemicals. So, I guess in that sense, you’re a lot more human even though not so much the unique human you’ve been conditioned to recognize. I’ve always liked the analogy of love with being on a merry go round (the kind you spin around on in parks) for the same reasons. It makes you dizzy/disoriented, you can fall off and hurt yourself, but it feels really good if you do it right or at least while it lasts. In this case, falling WOULD be the heartbreak.
--Vertigo
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