You know The Gaze.
Black and white pictures of philosophers, heads in hand, brows furrowed, hard eyes fixated into the distance. Great thinkers plagued by the Great work of Great ones who came before.
I wish I could have slipped surreptitiously into this discourse; I should have preferred to have been enveloped by speech. I steal from Foucault-- and so? We are as much ourselves as we are a mechanism for transferring the constantly moving body of knowledge. I am you and you are me-- again, it's just too much! The shininess of this hippified statement is alluring; are we all not recycled artists? Someone stop me before I hurt myself.
I walked all morning to catch up with my thoughts, but the world kept moving and my thoughts kept going. Funny, right? And so the keypad now droops beneath heavy fingers, words sloshing down and around, and I mourn the predictability of being prepared. The preparedness of predictability. Preparing for one's predictable life? Are they not all the same thing, a tired, tired, song?
Careful! What? I said be careful of the individual. The individual. The INDIVIDUAL. Oh free, unitary, acting subject, how GREAT a notion! Well, Sometimes A Great Notion.
I don't care what philosophical terrain I'm stepping into, what Freudian reading in which this can be contextualized-- the pure idea of the individual as a free and acting agent is never what it seems to be: free. Is that saying we are constantly bound by the restrictions around us, doomed to be vessels of pre-existing art, choices, and thousand year-old dilemmas? Perhaps: A slimy, two-syllable deferment of judgement. And so? What matters to me right now is the event of thoughts unfolding; the questioning, the entire act of labeling this flow of thoughts as an "event," the event of judging it, and then the refusal to judge it once it's over-- oh, and that whole event, too. All of it.
What is this, a post-modern reluctance to latch onto a solid definition of The Subject? The fact that I even thought that right now points to the all too knowable attempt by theorists to categorize, rationalize, and organize these very attempts into modern/post-modern/post-post-modern posts-- wait, what are we posting? The unavoidable and BLARING dilemma of merely existing as an individual with supposed freedom necessitates some sort of a discussion on our "rights," our "powers," right?
Ooooh no. No, no, no. This is shaky territory. I can't commit to discussing Rights and Power unless my lawyer is present.
What do you eat? Where do you live? How do you recreate? Spending time over these questions seems more useful to me than attempting to systematize methods of thinking of OURSELVES, and placing them into certain camps. What for? Are we that self-centered? Or are we too lost in the big, complex world that we need these labels to help us make sense of ways of making sense of ourselves?
And The Gaze emerges. I knew you could sense it. Let's stop right here and track it.
My language is sweeping, ridiculous, wordy, and reluctant to commit, and so? In typing these words, do I not perform the same angst found in The Gaze? (Look closely, it's different) A Gaze that once formed from the need for linear, rational explanations instead emerges out of the radical abandonment of this weighty "problem of causality," and the shift into the immediate event of thinking. *Wild, glittering eyes replace a dead, glazed over frown* The result? A different look-- just as scrutinizing--but instead finding its furrow over the absurd and wonderful dualistic nature of the individual as both bound AND free.
What could this possibly "mean," you ask? A multiplication of the notion of the "individual" into something constantly bound by its limits, and internally free to play. Moving around with this notion behind one's eyes is at first unsettling: but isn't that the most liberating part of this gaze? The secret instinct that I am both written by and write the world as I go through it- day by day, moment by moment.
Symptomize this idealistic move as a classic coming-of-age tale. Yes, the young Holden Caufield so aptly sits immersed in his studies, relishing the immediacy of his freedom, and plagued by the weight of the world-- and so chooses both! Yes but. Yes but. Fast forward, rewind, it's always been the same story. Caught in a state of hyper-awareness of the function of the individual as both an Object and Effect of the movement of power-- HOW CAN ONE NOT? How can one not begin to become, and unfold, into this gaze....
* * *
So, how about it? Let's play this game. Because while it's magically wild to re-think the entire notion of freedom, that's a pretty sweeping move, right? Is that what I'm doing? (*smiles*)
On the one hand, it is tempting to think that the significance of this whole discussion rests in attitude. How you "perceive" your situation. I am free because I "choose" to be. Thoughts are powerful things, you know, and they create your reality, and if you buy my book for $10.99 you'll also get my DVD that will tell you the same thing and blah and blah and blah-- positive vibes, numbing the internal knots with blankets of future-based sentiments and hopes for a better place. Feed me the good tasty recipe for happy living, give me a hand to hold and a body to lay next to at night, and reserve a table for two as we blindly move from relationship to relationship, seeking warmth and attempting to exercise our "freedom" as INDIVIDUALS. Unique people, doing unique things. Believing this is the way we are supposed to act, preparing ourselves for a life of predictability, we convince ourselves that we CAN prepare ourselves for a life of predictability, and so do it.
Self-medicated freedom.
But in this effort to avoid the threat of a mundane, powerless existence, we instead normalize ourselves, discipline ourselves, and limit OURSELVES, utilizing recycled notions of success and freedom to see immediate results in our personal lives. Oh yes, here comes Guilt, stepping into the already crowded foyer.
The allure of living an outwardly "free" life used to excite me: "Emancipate yourself from mental slavery; none but ourselves can free our minds." Wow. So bold. So "true." I have the power, man! ME! But what I'm concerned with now is WHY this mental slavery is here in the first place? When did we reach a point where we had to have other "free" people tell us how we, too, can be free? Doesn't that negate the notion of freedom? Does any of this even matter?
I don't know what this all "means," but I notice that the notion of freedom tends to become wrapped up in the search for happiness. We all "want" to be happy, in theory. And we very well can be. It's simple. Just ask the Dali Llama, and I'm not kidding (?)
And here comes the other side. Despite the easily attainable path to comfort I have so unfairly attacked, there's still a darker route. I'll still walk home alone, and gaze at the individuals who easily couple themselves off believing this is IT, man, I have found it, or: I have time, why not? I'm young, this is what it's alllllllllll about! I'm free, and invincible-- and, and shit man, existentialism!
The struggle, then: Blindly participating in this game where freedom/happiness (what's the diff?) is just a drunk text message away vs. Critiquing the choice to engage in this discourse of power, and liking it too. They're both extremes, and they both can immediately fulfill the need to exert some sort of freedom. So what's all the fuss about? Which one's better?
If you say "depends" I will walk out of this conversation right now...
Depends.
Sometimes, I'd rather feel the weight of my restraints a little; walk around some more, and sift through these neuroses, rather than stroll along in silence, hand-in-hand, never knowing the person next to me or the person inside of me. Yes, the delectable pleasure of thinking too much. Inactivity. Paralyzed by knowing too much, Descartes sits fondling his wax. There's a time for that.
Other times, I AM DOWNN to jump headfirst into life, allowing myself to partake in the simple, superficial, yet perfectly delightful experiences of ignoring homework for a couple more hours of Saturday night freedom. To be sad, but convince oneself otherwise, is part of the process of participating in a sometimes much-needed FOL (fuck our lives) session. Been there, done that. See other post.
So let me ask you again, which is better?
What I am arguing for is both. Both are better. By shifting of the terms of this strained, tired discussion on "what it means to act freely," I'd like to banish this stupid binary and instead offer up an invitation to appreciate both the privileges AND limitations of having a choice, at once, all the time. And that this choice is beautifully ongoing and overlapping is what makes the magical weirdness of each word I type come alive-- your thoughts and my thoughts become part of a larger Gaze that attempts to come to terms with the limits of our freedom.
And for the love of G-d, cherish this: totally & tragically. Contempt. Fear. Lust. Anger. Serenity. All of it.
Caught up in this sticky dualistic mess, we partake in a generative, networked engine of power that's been running since before I was conceived. There is no escaping the fray-- we are always already enmeshed. In what? Perfect. All of it.
"So that's what you were day-dreaming about, huh?" Yes.
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