As is emblematic of Januarys of a new year, I’ve been observing, in myself and in those around me, a punishing desire for more—to achieve more, to become more, to have more to show for the unsolicited act of living.
When you’re young, it might be easy to believe that stagnation comes to those who aren’t progressing; that life depends on the capitalistic imperative to grow; that it’s practical or clever or humorous to disregard the things that aren’t additive to your personal bottom line or to your personal legacy; that art and literature and philosophy, culture and thought, are frivolous in the shadow of your ambition. Are we still young enough to think this way? It’s getting late. There aren’t that many sunsets left for you to miss.
This is a gentle reminder that there is more to the world than how much value you can extract from it, how much market share you can capture. This is a gentle reminder that, to quote my friend Kegan, all the money, success, power, beauty in the world will not make you interesting or funny or kind. There is more to literature than the data you can cite. There is more to someone’s story than what they can do for you. There is more than making a living; there is life.
If you are more close to the dying than you would like to be, then it is time for the sky to grow larger than the earth, than the sea even. You need to go to that place where your story is seriously quiet. Nothing in it counts compared to the things the sky calls out to: birds, clouds, the occasional cypress that has reached beyond itself. You could call it a kind of waiting and that would be fair. There is a green bench — a corner of heaven, you could say — and there you can sit in the shade and watch the grandfather and grandson walk by, hand in hand. The little one makes the older one laugh again and again, and that is the way it works in heaven. Also known as going home. Also known as getting over yourself. - Jim Moore
Since moving to Los Angeles, Tom and I have found ourselves surrounded by people unlike our community in San Francisco. To be honest, though, we’ve both felt like outsiders all our lives, having grown up in foreign places, without a true “home” (something we finally found—we claim in our most revolting moments—in each other). We’ve always made friends effortlessly, yet felt apart from them. We’ve always had multiple disparate groups of friends, finding pieces of ourselves in each of them.
I think this is why, every few months, I find myself being carried away from who I am by the current du jour, swept up by the values—money, success, wellness, beauty—of those around me, then floundering, fighting to return to myself again. To do so, I go to yoga or breathwork or on a long walk. I seek the sunshine on my face, watch the ocean waves. I read poetry and fiction, catch up with my funniest friends (hello, Kegan).
Recently, we watched the film, The Banshees of Inisherin. At first, I thought that it was about the contagion of madness in a closed system (an island). Tom suggested that it was an allegory for the Irish Civil War. I think, now, that it’s about getting over yourself:
Colm Doherty : Ah, well, I suppose niceness doesn't last then, does it, Padraic? But will I tell ya something that does last?
Pádraic Súilleabháin : What? And don't say somethin' stupid like music.
Colm Doherty : Music lasts.
Pádraic Súilleabháin : Knew it!
Colm Doherty : And paintings last. And poetry lasts.
Pádraic Súilleabháin : So does niceness.
Colm Doherty : Do you know who we remember for how nice they was in the 17th century?
Pádraic Súilleabháin : Who?
Colm Doherty : Absolutely no one. Yet we all remember the music of the time. Everyone, to a man, knows Mozart's name.
Pádraic Súilleabháin : Well, I don't, so there goes that theory. And anyway, we're talkin' about niceness. Not what's his name. My mammy, she was nice. I remember her. And my daddy, he was nice. I remember him. And my sister, she's nice. I'll remember her. Forever I'll remember her.
Music lasts, and paintings last, and poetry lasts. But I’m not delusional enough to believe that my art will last; I’m not faithful enough to believe that my friends’ will either—partially because the “art” of most of the people I know is tech. Technology is even more transient, even more saturated—something new, brighter, is always just around the corner. Unless you’re Mozart or Musk, you won’t be remembered by future generations, and even then, they might get it wrong (Pádraic’s nice sister informs Colm that Mozart was from the 18th, not the 17th, century).
This is a gentle reminder that ashes to ashes, dust to dust. One day, not too long from now, it’ll be silent and it’ll be dark, for all of us. But before that, it’ll be humbling and, I’m sorry to say, painful. When all else falls away, I hope that you’re at peace with yourself in your solitude. When there is no hollow purpose to sustain you, no rat race to run in, I hope that you find yourself fulfilled regardless.
This year, and every year, I hope you’re able to face the world with more—not more of anything to show, but more of what it means to be human—tenderness, wonder, love.
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funny & poor >>>>