Wrote this last night. It's not as much of a story as a journal entry, but I like it and thought I'd share. This feels like the tip of the iceberg on this topic for me, so there will probably me more to come.
Comments/questions of course welcome.
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So I wrote a bunch of words on a subject which I've been meaning to write about for awhile...
"Misanthropes Get Lonely Too”
(Originally titled: “Thoughts on Loneliness, Introversion, and Misanthropy, Written in a Backyard Next to A Fire in Near-Freezing Temperatures. If Only I were in A Jungle, in Either Sense of the Word.”)
Saturday night, amateur hour. I'm sitting in my backyard drinking a hot toddy and thoroughly enjoying the heat from a pallet-fueled fire in the fire pit. Occasionally I hear voices from a nearby apartment, the wooooooooo of weekend warriors carried on the breeze, the whistle of a train, growls of cars, assorted signs of life in this metropolis. I feel alone. It could just as easily be voices from a nearby dimension, the hhhoowwwwww of a distant wolf, the whistles of an owl, rustlings of small animals, assorted signs of life in this remote jungle.
Very few sentient entities in either place seem to speak my language. I crave loving connectedness with beings who desire the same. A wolf howls back at an owl's whistle only to be answered by the receding flap of wings. I reply to a human's question only to be answered with curious expressions and curiouser silence.
I like silence. Silence is not the absence of communication. There is probably more useful information exchanged in 60 seconds of the wolf's ass-sniffing ritual than in 60 minutes of the human's small-talk ritual. I'll happily take those confused-looking stares and “awkward” (what's so damn awkward about the fact that sometimes nobody needs to flap their maw?) silences if it means I can avoid a language devoid of utility and complex to the point of incomprehensibility.
So I feel that the connections I seek and the language I speak is more rare than the sline's pictograms. [Cf. Anathem, Neal Stephenson] I'm not so brash as to say that I'm the only one who groks this communication. I've assuredly met others who share this uncommon form of exchange. It feels like an impossible balance between finding (and maintaining) a connection with another that even the most misanthropic entity genuinely needs, and wading through a sea of plastic pellets, each one registering as an affront to my mental health. It's tempting to just give up after thousands of these pellets clog my synapses. But that is a dark, overgrown path in this jungle, and no one has ever come back from that direction; the direction of defeat and anguish.
So I sit here, next to this fire, wondering how universal this seeming beacon of civilization actually is. The owl is scared away by the flames, the wolf merely curious, and the human seemingly indifferent. I'm unsure whether to make the fire bigger and melt all the toxic plastic pellets away, or let the flames die down to coals so the owl might come back and let me watch her listen.
Either way, I'm still alone here, but at least I am warm.
--Helyx, 11/24/2013
Comments/questions of course welcome.
P { margin-bottom: 0.08in; }
So I wrote a bunch of words on a subject which I've been meaning to write about for awhile...
"Misanthropes Get Lonely Too”
(Originally titled: “Thoughts on Loneliness, Introversion, and Misanthropy, Written in a Backyard Next to A Fire in Near-Freezing Temperatures. If Only I were in A Jungle, in Either Sense of the Word.”)
Saturday night, amateur hour. I'm sitting in my backyard drinking a hot toddy and thoroughly enjoying the heat from a pallet-fueled fire in the fire pit. Occasionally I hear voices from a nearby apartment, the wooooooooo of weekend warriors carried on the breeze, the whistle of a train, growls of cars, assorted signs of life in this metropolis. I feel alone. It could just as easily be voices from a nearby dimension, the hhhoowwwwww of a distant wolf, the whistles of an owl, rustlings of small animals, assorted signs of life in this remote jungle.
Very few sentient entities in either place seem to speak my language. I crave loving connectedness with beings who desire the same. A wolf howls back at an owl's whistle only to be answered by the receding flap of wings. I reply to a human's question only to be answered with curious expressions and curiouser silence.
I like silence. Silence is not the absence of communication. There is probably more useful information exchanged in 60 seconds of the wolf's ass-sniffing ritual than in 60 minutes of the human's small-talk ritual. I'll happily take those confused-looking stares and “awkward” (what's so damn awkward about the fact that sometimes nobody needs to flap their maw?) silences if it means I can avoid a language devoid of utility and complex to the point of incomprehensibility.
So I feel that the connections I seek and the language I speak is more rare than the sline's pictograms. [Cf. Anathem, Neal Stephenson] I'm not so brash as to say that I'm the only one who groks this communication. I've assuredly met others who share this uncommon form of exchange. It feels like an impossible balance between finding (and maintaining) a connection with another that even the most misanthropic entity genuinely needs, and wading through a sea of plastic pellets, each one registering as an affront to my mental health. It's tempting to just give up after thousands of these pellets clog my synapses. But that is a dark, overgrown path in this jungle, and no one has ever come back from that direction; the direction of defeat and anguish.
So I sit here, next to this fire, wondering how universal this seeming beacon of civilization actually is. The owl is scared away by the flames, the wolf merely curious, and the human seemingly indifferent. I'm unsure whether to make the fire bigger and melt all the toxic plastic pellets away, or let the flames die down to coals so the owl might come back and let me watch her listen.
Either way, I'm still alone here, but at least I am warm.
--Helyx, 11/24/2013
