Category: ruminations

For most of my life, I viewed the body as a vessel for the spirit or mind. This might seem a bit strange or contradictory as I am not one who thinks of the mind as separate from the physiological self (no ghosts in machines here). Yet, the “emergent properties” that constitute consciousness or intelligence or mind are, at least theoretically, separable from the electrochemical processes in our brains. So I guess there still is some sort of mind-body duality, in that there are some things we do for the brain versus for the rest of ourselves.

Thus, it was my belief that the physical body should only be afforded the minimal amount of maintenance to ensure that the other parts survived. Of course, being young and invincible helps that manner of thinking.

Some things have changed, surprising even myself. As the ailments of age slowly manifest themselves, it becomes ever apparent that it really does require no small effort to maintain the aspects of youth. I’m no spring chicken anymore, as it were. Being healthy is easy when it requires no work. Also, that slowing metabolism really sucks when trying to lose weight.

It now strikes me as being a bit intellectually smug and naive to think that mental improvement alone is a worthwhile personal achievement. Of course, it’s hard to blame people like myself, who have been comparatively gifted in intelligence and weaned on learning, to prize that which we possess. However, if it is through human efforts that value is derived, then the striving of physical beauty is certainly a huge human accomplishment. One might say that the latter pursuit is ephemeral, but one might also say that everyone dies in the end. In terms of personal goals, all are selfish.

It wasn’t until I started ballet that some of these ideas began to sort themselves out. I’ve slowly come to realize that beauty can be an end unto itself and that self-improvement physically is as important as mentally. (Hidden shout-out to Cardinal Ballet for their Urban Nights performances, as well as obligatorily to tp girl.) So what before seemed disdainful, now it is almost disrespectful to not appreciate the effort she puts into making herself beautiful. One friend commented that it’s okay to compliment a woman on her ass, as a nice ass is always a product of willful action, while, for example, breasts are for the most part endowed by genetics. While my gestaltic view on female beauty disagrees with his, and not to mention my hesitation to objectify women, I think he has an interesting point. All this is to say… something. I’m not sure what. My thoughts are pretty jumbled, and it is late.

I still remember — it must have been over a dozen years ago — the profoundness I felt when I first heard the condition of the elevator: people are there in close proximity, but psychically everyone is in their own world, trying their best not to make eye contact or interact with others. I also remember thinking while riding the bus in Berlin (also so many years ago) that this “loneliness in the crowd” was attenuated by the fact that at least I didn’t speak the same language as everyone else. There’s really no “excuse” for our quotidian interactions.

It’s a strange world that we live in, where physical distance doesn’t have much bearing on our associations and empathies with people. Of course, the internet and other technologies make this worse. I, of course, am very guilty of indulging in this trend: most of my best friends I rarely see or even talk (as in, on the phone) to, but we keep communication online. And outside of the college dorm community, which in some deep sense is not representative of any standard cross-sectional sampling of society, I have never really built rapport with neighbors.

There is something comfortingly defensive about this passive stance, however. Especially for the introverted like me, it is one of the only ways to manage to fact that there are so many people in this world. The number of people we superficially see or come in contact with each and every day is mindbogglingly larger than what our evolutionary social senses are adapted to comfortably accommodate. I have a hard enough time remember the names of people, a situation of which my sectionees are painfully aware; and I have little interest in getting to know or befriending thousands of people. Those people that I know are just fine, thanks. (Well, except for the, you know, girlfriend bit.)

Perhaps this is one reason why I like ballet class: this feeling of forced solitariness (loneliness?) in a crowd. Outsider, no talking, intense concentration on something that’s not the people right around you (tp girl ruins this, (un)fortunately [can’t blame her for being so cute and good at dancing, though {am I nesting parenthetical comments correctly?}]). Everyone is focused on what they’re doing, and their neighbors are present in mind but incidental. One gets lost in the moment, each building a similar world with obviously different precision.

There is, however, an unshakable difference between the “loneliness in the crowd” and the “loneliness in your room.” Namely, that despite efforts to deny it, the presence of people does have an effect on you, even if, for the large part, you choose to ignore them. I think it is one of my deep, Emersonian wishes to be somehow completely self reliant, able to do things by and for myself and without consideration of others, “an island unto myself” or such. Mostly, to convince myself that my actions would be based off some universal imperative (whatever that means), as opposed to peer pressure or the dictates of society — the crazy lives of secular humanists. I am more antisocial than most, but I can say that almost surely (that’s a probability joke, which I don’t get) this wish is bound to fail. We humans are just too intertwined to be able to give up societal interactions.

But the mind is a difficult thing to satisfy because it knows absence as well. That is why, e.g. I am dreading going to tomorrow’s party. The people there will be the nicest in the world, friends that I really do want to see, but at the end of the day, only that emptiness will be felt. “Every night I shiver alone before I sleep,” etc. Just like the “exercise high” dissipates after a few hours, so does the “social high.” This, along with the arbitrary artificiality of enforced social interaction, is why I dislike going to bars and clubs. But even after seeing good friends, there is still that lingering hollow aftereffect. At the end of the day, when all the fun is done, my only companion is myself, and everything fades.

But of course, on Sad Men’s Day, what would one expect from me but some rumination on the helplessness of my situation?

It’s not that I don’t believe that the rational, scientific efforts I use in every other part of my life won’t work for love. It is a rather naive view that somehow we humans aren’t predictable, that we can’t make (fake?) ourselves attractive to others. Everyone has buttons that can be pushed.

However, I don’t want to think of love in that way which would work easiest. Just because it is as much a matching problem as finding a job doesn’t mean that we must treating finding a girlfriend the same way. There is a fundamental desire to work in a different light, to not have one’s entire life conform to one strict philosophy, to keep some parts of this world left to wonder. So even if I as a rational agent don’t believe in true love, I desperately want to. I don’t want to prepare for dating as I would a job interview. And I am willing to give up that success in order to keep this belief alive. Perhaps this is undue stubbornness on my part. But we are made to compromise on everything else in life that I think maybe this is somewhere where I can take a stand. At least you know now how to be alone for 27 Valentine’s days.

Part of the problem is that I’m not even sure what I want, or what I could even offer. I don’t want someone to love me for material reasons, and so I do not pursue wealth. I also don’t think anyone will love me for my mind. I’m not dumb, but I’m no genius, either. Perhaps it’s because my cohort is so amazing, or maybe because I don’t like myself all that much, but if you’re my friend, chances are I think you’re stronger, smarter, and sexier than me. And no one will love me for my physical self, I can guarantee you that. So what else is there left for me to give? I can only offer my flawed self.

I do know, though, that there are three people in the world who would love me for as me. And the record shows that I could be a better son and a better brother.

But shouldn’t love be something simple? Life is complicated enough as it is without all these machinations, speaking obtusely, complicated societal rules of engagement. Surely someone else also sees through the masque; truth is simpler than fiction.

All of this is to say that I am confused and alone, as always. It is silly to think that we were put on this world to be happy. Most of us suffer, and it’s not hard for me to believe that love is only for the lucky and the strong. So until inspiration hits, I will wait until my grave, and I will wait.