I, rather desperately, want something to say, which, of course, does not guarantee I’ll find it. Much as I search for the jungle of reasons that might explain my decisions or personality, I’m hoping the mere act of focusing these words will bring ones to light that are worthwhile.
I’ve spent 10 or so hours the last 2 days taking in Jordan Peterson lectures. It occurs to me that while I want to shed undying affection for his capacity as a story-teller and the brilliant explanations and analysis he offers across domains, much of what he says is from the shoulders of his chosen giants. I then ask myself if I’m thankful for him, his focus, his story-telling, or something deeper that he, his predecessors, and I are all accessing in contemplating and sharing ideas.
One of the things I find interesting in wrapping myself up in learning about psychological literature or experiments is how calm I get. Things pop into place. I take all my experiences with deep emotion or affection and plot them on the wall that fits nicely into the well-studied and documented phenomenon that characterizes me too well. I take the embarrassment or not-quite shame of drunken sentimentality and hear how the roots of what’s driving me to talk in such a way go so far back and are so poorly understood, by what intellectual or personally responsible right do I have to get so far up my ass for being compelled by them? My passion begets the essence of life! So to speak…
Or we can dive into the political realm and reliably predict how people will vote based on how they respond to questions regarding their agreeableness or sensitivity to be disgusted. The wonderful thing about listening to these lectures is that there’s this unyielding depersonalization in the statistical models or historical underpinnings that he then re-invigorates with the sheer humanity of our hero stories and perceptions of value. You can’t be a predictable cog without living and breathing a respect for the very idea and existence of a cog!
Time and again lately I’ve thought about the relative misfortune of my circumstances, which overstates both my circumstances and how I actually feel about them. Because what I lament rarely has to do with singularly small selfish conceptions regarding what I might deserve as what I speculate people say about themselves. I try to account for all the forces that restrict honest creative expression and connection. Peterson points out that often it’s not that he treats people in his psychoanalytic practice who have genuine brain disorders, they just live in pathological circumstances or have adopted modes of thought they don’t know how to get out of.
That’s my general assessment of “society at large” as I see fit to complain about it. I think that while we can reliably fall into camps and habits, I just don’t know what to make out of utilizing free will and making choices. Just because mathematical curves account for how money is distributed or grading on a curve can try to account for a particularly hard course doesn’t mean we can’t structure our society in ways that actively combat these tendencies. I don’t know that Peterson has argued as such per se, but he has critiqued ideological liberals who think they’d govern better or create some form of utopia if only they had control of the resources. Peterson’s point is more absolutely bad underlying philosophy corrupts absolutely.
Here I think this speaks to the utility of writing and just general productive conversation and interaction. I found myself surrounded by a group of half sober, half-drunk 20 year olds the other night. One of the children thought we were bullying the only person to find me the next day to friend on facebook. I would argue the PC wave of liberal naivety is strong with the girl who offered that tidbit, but enough interactions of watching outgoing men who like to drink together might soften her attitude. There’s a generational divide, sexual divide, and whatever 19 more I’m sure she could list that get bridged, at least partially, in interactions like that.
And so you can think. Is it possible to not only enjoy, but “properly” engage in both drunken bacchanals and polite discourse digging into the minutia of presumed behavior and identity? Sure. What strikes me, and I’ve said this before, is our weaponization of our viewpoint to demonize or destroy who we don’t want to hear. The weapons can act like silent farts though and sneak into our interactions poisoning in ways we’re not paying attention to. I ask you 10 questions attempting to understand you; you accuse me of not listening. I attempt to restate your position in a way you agree with, you take my attempt as a jeering indictment and branch off into an argument about the argument or my character. You’re a vicious proponent of your view in your corner of the online world or your diary, but in the moment you foment quiet resentment and airily dismiss all you saw was wrong after dismissing yourself early from the gathering.
One of my favorite things about me is my ability to seemingly and completely shit all over something, and in the next breath, espouse its virtue. I want my worst thoughts and opinions to be wrong. I want you to know your beard looks mildly pubey, but that I also don’t, and couldn’t possibly, genuinely give two shits about your facial hair and that should be liberating and respected. I want you to know that while I think you’re often a deeply afraid and confused ignorant race of monkeys that are hell bent on finding a way to kill me in ways that can only be understood in their capacity to transcend irony, I still think you have the capacity to make choices and change the script. You may not be able to stop your physiology from responding to me or my words, but your approach is always yours. Your thousand word response to my behavior or perspective will go miles and miles with me as I think my words have the ability to go with you.
I’m still not convinced the problem is me. Another way to state that is that I don’t believe I shy away from taking responsibility. It’s not just about risk tolerance or creativity, it really is about responsibility. If I had a million dollars tomorrow, I’m confident I wouldn’t destroy my life or that my social interactions would be much better or worse than they are right now. I think that only because I can already over-indulge and don’t. I’ve already had the ability to sit-pretty and wait it out and get comfortable. I watched TV and tried to pay for the means to create and live sustainably. I gave money I barely had that was singularly won away to friends and family. In service to my great ask, “Somebody keep talking!” I submitted my reading and lectures and inspirations.
My problem is Western Civilization’s problem. I’m without a larger story or context. God’s been dead for a long time for me, but then again, was never really there to begin with. At least I believed in school or the direction from my parents. At least I used to look forward to meaning something to someone, anyone at this point, that isn’t symbolized incidentally in family. The disembodied voice digging around my head for direction or ideas wasn’t supposed to encompass how you all remember or think of me. My conception of that larger context is the one that drives me to 3 jobs in order to even attempt to thrive. It’s the one that elected Hitler 2 with nothing but apologizing rationalizations and bent-over bullshit to explain it away. It’s the snow followed by a mild summer day. We need to tap into how we can save ourselves. We need to remember just what it is we are responsible for, what we are to ourselves and each other.
I’m lost. If you’re not, I don’t understand you as I orient myself in relation to you. You still seem broke. You still seem tired. You still can’t answer questions or find the time. You’re still quiet or rehearsed. I think you’re wildly irrational or stupidly optimistic to not be afraid. And we don’t talk or barely visit. We’re not working together. We’re not sharing ideas. We’re not challenging each other. We’re waiting, decaying. We’re choosing the daily distraction and grind because it’s all we can imagine.
I chose to listen while at work, get off work and search. In 5 hours I’ll be back to work where I’ll practice and read. Then if I don’t pass out I’ll sow the seeds for some new endeavor I want to grow or experiment with. Every affirmation shores up the last. Every choice defies my aching feet, back, and eyelids. You know you can do more, but do you know why you ought to? Can you harness the power of your swirling violent nihilistic disarray and your chipper thoughtful moralistic inner child to conceive of a better, comprehensive, and honest way forward? Or is it really just me feeling this way? Am I the only one spinning his wheels, stowing the cash and licking his lips until the day he can afford healthcare and a better car? Is it just time to settle into the constant pat on the back for being born at the top of human achievement, enjoy it while it lasts and revel in the dividends of those refusing to capitulate to the dismay? How dishonestly lazy.
Who am I kidding? I can’t even persuade you to talk.
