Essays in Love: The Emotional Spectrum

            A friend suggested I read Alain de Botton’s Essays in Love, and I’m in the process of doing so now. When I began reading, I assumed it was nonfiction, but Essays in Love is actually a mix of nonfiction and fiction. It spans over the course of a single affair and moves between a philosophical perspective on love and the actual act, and progression, of being in love.

            Obviously, it has me thinking about love.

            I rarely think of love as it relates to myself. More often I am mentally critiquing the entire world for their childish idealization of a single emotion, and questioning why love is so overrated while other emotional experiences –  such as depression, grief, and whatever you would call that feeling you get when you’re in the middle of laughing –  are so rarely discussed in the positive, celebratory light that they deserve.

            I have recently experienced a new emotion. Allow me to explain:

            Three years ago, my grandmother died. She was very old, the cause of her death was very common, and we had been very close. Directly after her death, I was somewhat surprised to find that I regarded her new lack of life with little more than apathy. I stood by strictly as an observer when my family grieved her loss. During this time, I solaced myself by deciding that I was simply more rational than most people. Death is inevitable, she lived a great life – why grieve something when you knew it was going to happen, and when it happened in the most ideal way possible?

            In short, I thought I had skipped the stages of grief and dashed right to ‘acceptance.’

            Roughly two weeks ago, I was in bed, thinking whatever thoughts one thinks before sleep, when a wave of emotion overwhelmed me. I cannot recall why I had the initial thought of my grandmother, or what had stirred this thought to emergence – only that for three years I had not missed her, and suddenly I was a sobbing mess, alone in a dark room, panicking because I could not bring a clear image of her face into my mind. A realization so obvious it surely cannot be accurately coined a realization, and yet that’s what it was, dawned on me:

            She is never coming back. No matter how much time passes, or how often I think of her, she will not come back.

            I had been in denial, unable to grieve because my subconscious hadn’t accepted that she was gone, for three years.

            One part of me was experiencing the act of mourning for the first time. This part was consumed in the inescapable grief, a prisoner shackled to the moment. Another part of me, however, watched as an intrigued observer, more interested in this previously-unfelt emotion than anything else. So this is grief, the part thought excitedly, and took note.

            Afterwards, I pondered over the dual-emotional state that new experiences induce. There is the new emotion one experiences, and also the excitement felt simply because one is feeling something new. Sometimes, but not always, the excitement is contradictory to the new emotion, and yet both can lurk simultaneously in the same vessel. Fascinating.

            It made me think of the usefulness of all emotions. With experience (which comes with time/age), one’s emotional spectrum broadens. This is something for all of us to look forward to, namely for two reasons: 1. Experiencing new things is neat and fun. 2. Feeling new emotions allows us to connect with more people, almost in the way learning a new language does. For example, I have now felt grief, so I can relate to grievers in a way I previously could not.

            Perhaps this explains the egocentrism of children: Their emotional spectrums are more limited than ours, so they are unable to be empathetic. For example, they do not know what it feels like to be late for work, or to fail a test, or to hold the hand of a romantic partner, so they are unable to fully connect with a person who does.

            Now let’s go back to love.

            I have never experienced romantic love – the act of being in love, as it has been described to me. I cannot decide if this is because people have idealized love so much that it is impossible to obtain, because that which has been described to me does not actually exist. There’s also the fact that there’s no one around to fall in love with, really, and the fact that I find so many other things vastly more interesting and worthy of my time. Why settle for love when you can hungrily pursue the entirety of the emotional spectrum?

            And yet, there is obviously some part of me that is curious, or else I would not be writing this. I am not interested in being in love, and yet whenever ‘love’ is mentioned I am filled with yearning. Yearning for what, precisely?

            There was a scene in Essays in Love in which the narrator and the woman he loves go out to dinner, and talk. This is what filled me with yearning.

            I once read about a study in which it was found that people enjoy talking to strangers more than they do with their long time lovers, and it was decided that this is because people put more effort into talking with strangers than they do with those they are familiar and comfortable with. In other words, good conversations are produced by people who are in a state of arousal, or “on edge.”

            So I would like to meet a new person and speak to them. But why should we be in love? Because when you are in love, the oddities of the other person seem endlessly seductive (also mentioned in Essays in Love). You “find perfection in everything [they] utter.” This sounds like a great way to have a conversation! I love the thought of loving someone else, and having them love me, and consequently we find everything the other person is saying infinitely interesting, and we are sitting opposite each other in a restaurant, and we a discussing Life and Death and God and Beauty, and we are leaning towards each other because we wish to suck the words right from the other’s lips, because we feel uncannily connected, because we are experiencing something utterly transcendental in nature…

            I am not sure if I want to be in love, or if I just want to converse, and I am not sure if these two things are the same, or if the latter is not an intrinsic facet of the former. But with new experiences I will find out. And my emotional spectrum with broaden because of it.

On Enjoying Walden Two

       I read a couple of blog reviews on Walden Two, because I’m afraid I’m a horrible blogger and thought they might steer me in the right direction. To my surprise, all of the reviews I found were negative.

                There seemed to be three main reasons for not liking it.

1.       The book was just a medium through which B.F. Skinner expressed his views on behavioral psychology. It was too technical, and should have been an academic paper.

                I understand this point of view, but here is my issue with academic papers: They stay within academia. Had B.F. Skinner made Walden Two a paper instead of a novel, it probably would have been buried under a pile of other, more recent papers on behavioral psychology - forgotten to the world. And more importantly, it would have never reached the general public.

                All of the reviewers agreed that even if they thought Walden Two sucked, Skinner’s views were still interesting. Becoming aware of interesting ideas is an excellent reason to read a book.

                And aren’t most books mediums through which writers express their views? Skinner was certainly more direct than most writers, but this unashamed candidness was new, not unlikable.

                2. Creating an actual Walden Two isn’t possible because X, Y, and Z.

                Walden Two isn’t possible. Neither is the complete totalitarianism in 1984, or Hogwarts in Harry Potter. It’s fiction. This argument probably comes up with Walden Two, and not with my examples, because Skinner’s novel did sound so much like a debate in which his ideas ultimately triumphed. Some readers may be peeved by the unfairness of this - it's like playing a chess game with yourself and celebrating when you win. But does it matter? Even if Walden Two isn’t possible, the book is still useful for pointing out flaws in our society and providing a refreshing point of view.

                Reason 3: Too much bantering.

                Okay. This one I must agree with.

                I found this book to be thoroughly enjoyable. Certain lines made me crack up, and I developed a particularly odd crush on the haughty protagonist and creator of Walden Two, Frazier. Because some 90% of the text was dedicated to discussing the community in minute detail, it seemed unusually realistic; I felt very much a part of it. Also, it's triggered an interest in political philosophy. More on this later.

Walden Two: Art of the Plotless Novel

             Walden Two has become one of my favorite books. It’s pretty much a long conversation, mainly between three charming people, and it describes days where they do nothing but eat breakfast and look at art and argue incessantly and wash windows. It’s excessively pleasant. I like this “plotless novel” thing. I bet Harry Potter would have been more fun if there was no Voldemort, and it was just about a boy hanging out in a castle with his friends.

                It’s a very stress-free experience. I’m not reading to get to an ultimate “point.” I’m reading because it’s nice. I wish life was as plotless and pleasant as Walden Two. In fact, I wish the entire world had more things in common with Walden Two. 

Walden Two: First Thoughts

                I’m reading Walden Two. I wasn’t planning to compare Walden Two to Brave New World, but that was before I came across this snippet:

                “… Once in a while we manipulate a preference, if some job seems to be avoided without cause.”
              “I suppose you put phonographs in your dormitories which repeat ‘I like to work in sewers. Sewers are lots of fun,’” said Castle.
                “No, Walden Two isn’t that kind of brave new world,” said Frazier.






                So yeah. Skinner obviously intended that to be a sign.
                When I read Brave New World, I praised Huxley for being so creative in his introduction of a foreign society. He showed us a new world by giving us a tour of it. Skinner does the same with Walden Two.
                 Frazier, the creator of the utopia, is showing the narrator and his companions around the community, and has been for about 50 pages. I would not doubt that Skinner was inspired by Huxley’s tactics; literature is a cyclic creature. Inspired things become inspirations, ideas are recycled over millenniums and centuries and decades.
               Ah, literature. Muses inspired by muses.

Horror and Consent

Last night I clicked on a random Youtube link that I thought was going to be a music video. All was well until – halfway through the video – my laptop speakers emitted a scream and a gruesome picture popped up on my screen. I jumped out of my seat like the coward I am.


Har har har. Very funny prank.
  

After a few minutes, though, I was left feeling …sad. I had been all snug in a sweater and earmuffs, and that video robbed me of my serenity. It killed the Zen.

It got me thinking about different types of horror. Why is it I like reading H.P. Lovecraft and Edgar Allan Poe and R.L. Stine, etc., but I can’t stand when things pop out and give me a cheap scare? I realized that it’s a matter of consent.

Before I start Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde or Lovecraft’s short story The Nameless City each Halloween, I am preparing myself for something spooky. My mind dips in and out of the words at will, embracing the mood the stories induce. I control how far I’m willing to submerge myself, how much of my emotions I’m willing to invest. If a horror story ever goes too far – like some of Edogawa Rampo’s stuff, for me – then I can stop. Close the book. For as long as I am reading, the writer has my full consent to scare me.  I actively choose to mull over their words and conjure dark images in my mind; with the aid of those words, I create my own demons.

When it comes to movies or, with my example, stupid Youtube videos, scariness relies upon shock tactics and visual aids. And with shock tactics, there’s not enough time for consent. Where literature is scary because it puts your own mind in control, and then attempts to inspire the darkest parts of your inner self, this is scary because it makes you feel powerless.

I am not putting down scary movies or anything else. I’m saying that this is why I love horrific literature. It’s more tasteful, to me. And it allows me to feel all Zen in a sweater and earmuffs while also being terrified that misanthropic gods are hiding in my shower or Dracula is climbing up to my bedroom window.

With that said, I will soon be reading The Halloween Tree and Something Wicked This Way Comes, both by Ray Bradbury. The latter was suggested during my giveaway. Happy almost-Halloween!

Running into October

I open my door. My bare arms are exposed to the cool autumn air. It's the coolness, and not the calendar, that makes me aware of the passing of time.

I am struck with a sudden euphoria: It is autumn; the air is clean and crisp; pumpkins abound. The October spirit takes me, and I go for a run.

Running is a form of worship. If it's not, I've made it one. Running is my only form of worship to every god or goddess or kami of nature out there. Thank you, deities! Thank you, thank you, for the wind against my face and the pounding of my soles against the earth and the sky above my head!

In my small town no one is out past 9 and as I walk my ruminations are interrupted by the sounds of televisions and the flickering screens that shine through the shades of the neighborhood windows. It would be okay if my thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of families conversing with one another. My thoughts aren't as important as familial interactions. But it's always television. I feel like I'm Leonard Mead from Bradbury's The Pedestrian*, and I even get that dystopia feeling, where I start to imagine that the government is watching me and thinking me queer.

When I run, I feel rebellious and free. Dogs bark to the clapping sound of my sneakers - I never claimed to be graceful - and I send whole blocks aflutter with the distress of the canines. Porch lights inevitably go on and there's always that one loud, male voice that tells the dog to shut up, or - my favorite - shouts, "WHAT IS IT, SPARKY? WHAT IS IT?" and I think, "It's me! It's me! I'm alive and tangible and you're acknowledging me! and isn't it so good to be alive?" And I feel real sneaky, because no one knows I'm there or that I'm thinking that thought. I run on.

In Japanese Shintoism, shinpu or divine winds mark the comings and goings of kami, gods or forces of nature. When I run, all wind is divine wind and the kami can be felt everywhere.

Happy autumn, everyone. If you haven't, consider reading Bradbury's excellent short story, The Pedestrian. A PDF version of it can be found here: http://mikejmoran.typepad.com/files/pedestrian-by-bradbury-1.pdf

Ray Bradbury and Concise Writing

So your faithful blogger has not picked up the Inferno or La Vita Nuova since she last wrote about it. She gives you no apologies, because she thinks people apologize too often on the Internet.



And now, on the greatness that is Ray Bradbury:

There's nothing I like more than terse writing. All unnecessary words have been snipped away; none of the sentences are weighed down by excessive verbage. Whole works remain lean and smooth. Precise writing reveals lucid thinking from a writer, and in this way Ray Bradbury is, if I may say so, a most enlightened writer. He must think very lucidly indeed to write an opening sentence like this:

One minute it was Ohio winter, with doors closed, windows locked, the panes blind with frost, icicles fringing every roof, children skiing on slopes, housewives lumbering like great black bears in their furs along the icy streets.

One sentence, and about seven stellar images flash across my mind. Whew. And the next sentence:

And then a long wave of warmth crossed the small town.

Taken out of context, that sentence may not seem so nifty. But notice its contrast with the length of the first sentence; consider that Ray Bradbury, despite the opening paragraph only being one sentence, felt compelled to begin a new paragraph; appreciate the 'And then' beginning that immediately gives the sentence a definitive tone. Now the sentence is nifty.

Needless to say, I'm enjoying The Martian Chronicles immensely. I'll have more thoughts later, but I wanted to update. I like placing myself in the shoes of an admirable writer, trying to figure out why they phrased their ideas as they did. I like considering details of written works and acknowledging that each detail is the result of a conscious decision from the writer. Ray Bradbury started that second paragraph so soon for a reason - in this case, to show how significant that sudden warmth was (or, specifically, the cause of the warmth - a rocket's launch).

In short, I like taking things apart and putting them back together. I don't know if anyone will ever want to read a blog that consists largely of this type of word appreciation, but hopefully there is someone.

Until next time, happy reading!