Moderation isn't the product of bouncing between extremes, like a matter and antimatter particle canceling each other out. It's about the virtue of stability, dependability, and predictability. Not everyone considers these things virtues - and that's alright. But a person defined by polarity is not a poster child for moderation. I hitched my star to moderation because I define myself as even-keeled. My soul signature is "between", not "averaged out".
When I wrote (eight years ago [NSFW]), that "even moderation should be practiced in moderation", it wasn't to cancel moderation out, and thereby justify excess. To live (truly, that is) by the mantra "everything in moderation, including moderation" means that even your indulgences - which are human, and part of a balanced life - should be managed with a moderate temperament.
It acknowledges that, as humans, we are not perfectly balanced machines - which is okay - but that we should exert effort to balance even our imbalances, because doing so is good for us. This is certainly not a universal truth, and others may disagree. But if you do, then this is probably not the life philosophy for you. Using it to excuse extreme behaviors profanes the concept at its very heart, and borderlines on becoming an Orwellian construction - "indulgence is moderation." Why? because we must moderate our moderation? That's like tolerating the intolerant.
01 June, 2025
23 May, 2025
My Struggle
There's a new local photography club starting up in my area. Part of me is excited by the thought of meeting other people who share an interest in a hobby that has become something of a lifelong passion for me. But I'm not going to join. And not just because meeting new people gives me anxiety (although that's a contributing factor).
I'm not going to be able to relate to these people. They're not going to accept me as one of their own. They'll most likely take pictures of birds and flowers and babies and buildings, and while I've taken pictures of most of these things, it's not what inspires me.
The art I create is misunderstood. My intentions will be misinterpreted. I know, because it's happened before. Even in the case that other artists get it, there's a hard-boiled limiting factor baked into our culture that prevents my work from getting anything that might resemble professional exposure.
The one time I met other artists who do something similar to what I do - the first time I felt like I wasn't the only person in the world who does it - was online. I pushed myself WAY outside my comfort zone, in the hope of growing into a community that might offer the possibility of collaboration.
But it was all for naught. Like the NFTs they blindly idolized, all their ambitious plans evaporated in an instant, leaving me alone (like I've always been) with the summer plans I had cancelled so I could be flexible enough to zoom off to another state at a moment's notice.
If you knew the small town I live in, you'd know the chance of meeting anyone even remotely like me is astronomically small. If I were of a stronger constitution, I might actually relish the opportunity to be a trailblazer, opening people's eyes to possibilities they might never have considered before. But any potential there, is locked behind the bars of my anxiety.
It's been a pattern in my life that I tend to eschew anything that's popular (while rushing to the defense of the improperly maligned). Sometimes I wonder if I do it subconsciously to distance myself from the social interactions I fear, or as some kind of psychic retaliation against the people who have, in my mind, rejected me (although the reality is that I probably never gave them a chance in the first place). [Although a more favorable interpretation is that I understand firsthand what it is to be rejected and misunderstood - so I want to provide support to others in the same position, while standing up to the mentality that fuels this kind of bullying behavior].
Is this why I gravitate toward the esoteric and the controversial? Because it gives a purpose to my self-generated feelings of isolation within, while also providing a buffer from the pain of connection? "Of course I'm alone - look at how eccentric I am!" Yet my interests are genuine, and deep. It's simply not in me to be inauthentic. Life is truly more fascinating on the fringes than it is in the mainstream.
My struggle is this: I am still a social creature. I crave to feel part of a community. Yet I'll sabotage any chance of that happening, to spare me from agony. I'd LIKE to see it as a problem in need of a solution (chemistry? therapy?). But the more likely reality is that it will never change. And the sooner I accept this, the better. There's no end to my suffering. Just the question of what I'll accomplish in SPITE of it, and to what extent I'll ALLOW it to hold me back.
If life disappoints me 99 times, is that really justification not to try once more? Or, a question more appropriate to my circumstances: if life devastates me once, tearing me down body and soul, is that a good enough reason to spend the rest of my life hiding in my shell? I'm still working out the answer to that one.
I'm not going to be able to relate to these people. They're not going to accept me as one of their own. They'll most likely take pictures of birds and flowers and babies and buildings, and while I've taken pictures of most of these things, it's not what inspires me.
The art I create is misunderstood. My intentions will be misinterpreted. I know, because it's happened before. Even in the case that other artists get it, there's a hard-boiled limiting factor baked into our culture that prevents my work from getting anything that might resemble professional exposure.
The one time I met other artists who do something similar to what I do - the first time I felt like I wasn't the only person in the world who does it - was online. I pushed myself WAY outside my comfort zone, in the hope of growing into a community that might offer the possibility of collaboration.
But it was all for naught. Like the NFTs they blindly idolized, all their ambitious plans evaporated in an instant, leaving me alone (like I've always been) with the summer plans I had cancelled so I could be flexible enough to zoom off to another state at a moment's notice.
If you knew the small town I live in, you'd know the chance of meeting anyone even remotely like me is astronomically small. If I were of a stronger constitution, I might actually relish the opportunity to be a trailblazer, opening people's eyes to possibilities they might never have considered before. But any potential there, is locked behind the bars of my anxiety.
It's been a pattern in my life that I tend to eschew anything that's popular (while rushing to the defense of the improperly maligned). Sometimes I wonder if I do it subconsciously to distance myself from the social interactions I fear, or as some kind of psychic retaliation against the people who have, in my mind, rejected me (although the reality is that I probably never gave them a chance in the first place). [Although a more favorable interpretation is that I understand firsthand what it is to be rejected and misunderstood - so I want to provide support to others in the same position, while standing up to the mentality that fuels this kind of bullying behavior].
Is this why I gravitate toward the esoteric and the controversial? Because it gives a purpose to my self-generated feelings of isolation within, while also providing a buffer from the pain of connection? "Of course I'm alone - look at how eccentric I am!" Yet my interests are genuine, and deep. It's simply not in me to be inauthentic. Life is truly more fascinating on the fringes than it is in the mainstream.
My struggle is this: I am still a social creature. I crave to feel part of a community. Yet I'll sabotage any chance of that happening, to spare me from agony. I'd LIKE to see it as a problem in need of a solution (chemistry? therapy?). But the more likely reality is that it will never change. And the sooner I accept this, the better. There's no end to my suffering. Just the question of what I'll accomplish in SPITE of it, and to what extent I'll ALLOW it to hold me back.
If life disappoints me 99 times, is that really justification not to try once more? Or, a question more appropriate to my circumstances: if life devastates me once, tearing me down body and soul, is that a good enough reason to spend the rest of my life hiding in my shell? I'm still working out the answer to that one.
09 February, 2025
Supermarket Sunday
I don't want to offend anyone who watches football. I mean, I like the concept of the Superbowl party - the festive atmosphere, the foods, the excitement of the game. I just wish it revolved around something that I found more interesting. Sports in particular is an activity that I think is better done than spectated, but even then, you could pick a better game - like gymnastics or beach volleyball, or even a cheer comp. Something that's at least visually stimulating, beyond counting points as a ball goes back and forth across the screen.
Watching family and friends follow games on TV for much of my life, I've always disliked the manner in which the viewer pins such intense highs and lows of joy and disappointment upon the performance of a group of athletes with which the only thing they have in common (in most cases) is their general area of residence. It's like a localized form of nationalism. That kind of arbitrary tribal mentality might have served us back when we were primitive hunter-gatherers, but in this global society, it's one of the driving forces behind such things as war, bigotry, and terrorism. One stranger isn't better than another stranger just because he lives closer to you, and maybe he's been to some of the same stores or restaurants, or listens to the same radio programs as you do.
Anyway, the first few years I moved away from home, it was a novelty and a relief being able to get through an entire season without even hearing about football. In some cases, Superbowl Sunday passed me by without me even recognizing that there was a game on. I don't miss it one bit. But one thing I've learned that's fun to do is to go grocery shopping on the day of the big game. All the stores are basically empty, because everybody's at home glued to their couches. It's a pretty cool atmosphere. I think I'll call it Supermarket Sunday.
Watching family and friends follow games on TV for much of my life, I've always disliked the manner in which the viewer pins such intense highs and lows of joy and disappointment upon the performance of a group of athletes with which the only thing they have in common (in most cases) is their general area of residence. It's like a localized form of nationalism. That kind of arbitrary tribal mentality might have served us back when we were primitive hunter-gatherers, but in this global society, it's one of the driving forces behind such things as war, bigotry, and terrorism. One stranger isn't better than another stranger just because he lives closer to you, and maybe he's been to some of the same stores or restaurants, or listens to the same radio programs as you do.
Anyway, the first few years I moved away from home, it was a novelty and a relief being able to get through an entire season without even hearing about football. In some cases, Superbowl Sunday passed me by without me even recognizing that there was a game on. I don't miss it one bit. But one thing I've learned that's fun to do is to go grocery shopping on the day of the big game. All the stores are basically empty, because everybody's at home glued to their couches. It's a pretty cool atmosphere. I think I'll call it Supermarket Sunday.
07 February, 2025
Sunscreen
In 1997, Baz Luhrmann (the same Baz Luhrmann who directed the film adaptation of Romeo + Juliet, starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes as the titular star-crossed lovers) released a spoken word song titled Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen), which was in actuality an adaptation of an essay written by Mary Schmich, former columnist for the Chicago Tribune. Styled as a hypothetical commencement speech, it contains a lot of good, general life advice. Anyway, there's a line in it which I think about from time to time (among several others, as a matter of fact), that reads as follows:
"Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft."
(I've travelled to both places, but haven't lived in either). I like this line because it reflects balance. It displays the importance of cultivating a varied perspective on the world, and the practice of familiarizing oneself with (and, presumably, generating empathy for) people who come from vastly different walks of life. But at the same time, it cautions you not to become too entrenched in a particular camp, or to let over-exposure dim the broadness of your vision.
I've read both Kinsey reports cover to cover (as with any textbook, the academic prose is dry, but filled with fascinating insights for those with a little patience). It, of course, has much to say about human sexuality, but of the many things that have stuck with me, I remember a comment about how in this great American experiment, most people do not change social class throughout their lives. Some people do, indeed, move up the social ladder - which is the elusive American dream. There are plenty of rags-to-riches stories out there (although I wonder to what extent this is just a convenient fantasy designed to placate the less fortunate masses). But only a minority ever find themselves climbing down the social ladder. Which is not to say that it does not happen (and there is certainly a catharsis to be had from the not unpopular riches-to-rags reverse tale).
Regardless, I would categorize my upbringing squarely in the middle class range. My immediate family was not what I would consider to be rich. But we were definitely not poor, either. I don't know the details of my parents' lives before I was born (we've never really been a "gather 'round and tell our life stories" kind of family), but I suspect that I may have had something of a more comfortable upbringing than one or both of my parents had. Which is nice for me. Unfortunately, circumstances directly related to mental illness (i.e., my crippling anxiety), have prevented me from fully unlocking my potential in life. I do my best to maintain the standards I grew up with - and I have a certain pride in that, although others of lesser means may interpret it as snobbery (which is fair). But, since having moved out of state, I've definitely entrenched myself within the confines of a decidedly lower class environment.
There's no way I can speak authentically about this subject without the risk of tarnishing the reputation of, and potentially causing offense to, people that I honestly like and care about. Nobody's perfect - nor are most people responsible for the conditions they're born into, and the opportunities they're not given - and you can still love and respect someone in spite of their flaws. Heaven knows I have more than my fair share of my own. So I hope my words aren't taken out of context. To be fair, the reason I moved out here is the person I've chosen to spend my life with; and she is by all accounts a diamond in the rough. What's more impressive than who she is, is that she's managed to become that despite the circumstances she's had to overcome.
So, like, don't get me wrong. But, aside from that exception, I do find myself surrounded, in this town, by people who are, on average, poorer and less educated than what I'm used to. And let me tell you, it's eye-opening. For the first few years, it was an adjustment. Something I had to get used to. After getting to know some of these people, and participating in their lives, it's definitely given me an appreciation for the hurdles they're faced with. But the more you witness what seems to you like bad decisions, and relative lack of cognitive capacity and critical thinking skills - no matter how it's not these people's fault that they're playing with an incomplete deck, against professional scam artists - the more it whittles away at your faith in humanity, as if to convince you that sapience is a myth, and we're all just animals running on instinct.
You know, there's a certain misanthropic frustration that settles in, when you hear about the kind of unethical behaviors rich, upper class tycoons engage in (most of the time without any kind of repercussions). But there's a risk of swinging the pendulum too far in the opposite direction, and concluding that the lower class "salt of the earth" type of people possess some kind of fundamental virtue. It's like the phallacy of the "noble savage", but applied to poverty. And it should be all the more apparent in an age where the ignorance of the uneducated is being exploited by those same tycoons to proliferate their immoral debauchery.
And when you're constantly hammered over the head with it, again and again, day after day, it can get to a point where you start to lose that empathy. And a different kind of misanthropic frustration begins to settle in. One that is, perhaps, even more depressing. Because it's one thing to recognize the corrupting influence of power. But it's another thing entirely to recognize the rotten core that exists at the very heart of humanity itself, which doesn't even require power to find expression. I guess if I were to amend Mary Schmich's original essay, I would add the following line:
"Get an internship at a Fortune 500 company, but quit before it makes you cynical. Live out in the country, but leave before you lose all faith in humanity."
And don't forget to wear that sunscreen.
"Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft."
(I've travelled to both places, but haven't lived in either). I like this line because it reflects balance. It displays the importance of cultivating a varied perspective on the world, and the practice of familiarizing oneself with (and, presumably, generating empathy for) people who come from vastly different walks of life. But at the same time, it cautions you not to become too entrenched in a particular camp, or to let over-exposure dim the broadness of your vision.
I've read both Kinsey reports cover to cover (as with any textbook, the academic prose is dry, but filled with fascinating insights for those with a little patience). It, of course, has much to say about human sexuality, but of the many things that have stuck with me, I remember a comment about how in this great American experiment, most people do not change social class throughout their lives. Some people do, indeed, move up the social ladder - which is the elusive American dream. There are plenty of rags-to-riches stories out there (although I wonder to what extent this is just a convenient fantasy designed to placate the less fortunate masses). But only a minority ever find themselves climbing down the social ladder. Which is not to say that it does not happen (and there is certainly a catharsis to be had from the not unpopular riches-to-rags reverse tale).
Regardless, I would categorize my upbringing squarely in the middle class range. My immediate family was not what I would consider to be rich. But we were definitely not poor, either. I don't know the details of my parents' lives before I was born (we've never really been a "gather 'round and tell our life stories" kind of family), but I suspect that I may have had something of a more comfortable upbringing than one or both of my parents had. Which is nice for me. Unfortunately, circumstances directly related to mental illness (i.e., my crippling anxiety), have prevented me from fully unlocking my potential in life. I do my best to maintain the standards I grew up with - and I have a certain pride in that, although others of lesser means may interpret it as snobbery (which is fair). But, since having moved out of state, I've definitely entrenched myself within the confines of a decidedly lower class environment.
There's no way I can speak authentically about this subject without the risk of tarnishing the reputation of, and potentially causing offense to, people that I honestly like and care about. Nobody's perfect - nor are most people responsible for the conditions they're born into, and the opportunities they're not given - and you can still love and respect someone in spite of their flaws. Heaven knows I have more than my fair share of my own. So I hope my words aren't taken out of context. To be fair, the reason I moved out here is the person I've chosen to spend my life with; and she is by all accounts a diamond in the rough. What's more impressive than who she is, is that she's managed to become that despite the circumstances she's had to overcome.
So, like, don't get me wrong. But, aside from that exception, I do find myself surrounded, in this town, by people who are, on average, poorer and less educated than what I'm used to. And let me tell you, it's eye-opening. For the first few years, it was an adjustment. Something I had to get used to. After getting to know some of these people, and participating in their lives, it's definitely given me an appreciation for the hurdles they're faced with. But the more you witness what seems to you like bad decisions, and relative lack of cognitive capacity and critical thinking skills - no matter how it's not these people's fault that they're playing with an incomplete deck, against professional scam artists - the more it whittles away at your faith in humanity, as if to convince you that sapience is a myth, and we're all just animals running on instinct.
You know, there's a certain misanthropic frustration that settles in, when you hear about the kind of unethical behaviors rich, upper class tycoons engage in (most of the time without any kind of repercussions). But there's a risk of swinging the pendulum too far in the opposite direction, and concluding that the lower class "salt of the earth" type of people possess some kind of fundamental virtue. It's like the phallacy of the "noble savage", but applied to poverty. And it should be all the more apparent in an age where the ignorance of the uneducated is being exploited by those same tycoons to proliferate their immoral debauchery.
And when you're constantly hammered over the head with it, again and again, day after day, it can get to a point where you start to lose that empathy. And a different kind of misanthropic frustration begins to settle in. One that is, perhaps, even more depressing. Because it's one thing to recognize the corrupting influence of power. But it's another thing entirely to recognize the rotten core that exists at the very heart of humanity itself, which doesn't even require power to find expression. I guess if I were to amend Mary Schmich's original essay, I would add the following line:
"Get an internship at a Fortune 500 company, but quit before it makes you cynical. Live out in the country, but leave before you lose all faith in humanity."
And don't forget to wear that sunscreen.
01 January, 2025
Behind The Code
I didn't always feel this way, and it's taken a lot of years of living to get to the point where I can honestly say, I would have liked to have had children. Which is not to say that I regret how things turned out. I struggle to manage my own life; I don't think it would be a good idea to put me in charge of somebody else's. Although, you never know, having children might have been the catalyst to motivate me to make the changes I could never make within myself. I know that's not a good gamble to place the wellbeing of another life upon. But let's be fair, people doom their offspring to much worse over much less every. single. day.
It's kind of how evolution and the propagation of the species works. It clashes with the sophisticated illusion of civilization we've constructed for ourselves, but spray and pray is the name of the game. You could be forgiven for doubting it if you've never left the middle class bubble that I grew up in. But look around down here at the bottom of the pyramid, and you simply can't avoid stepping in it. It makes you realize that in spite of all that so-called "sapience", we're still just apes in human clothing.
Anyway, from a certain perspective, caring for another generation is the most selfless act you can commit. But in my experience, making the conscious decision (which, to be fair, was easy - given the lack of opportunities handed to me) to sacrifice my chance at passing on my genes, and trying my hand at that delicious form of human clay molding known as parenthood, in order to spare a single other human being even the possibility of experiencing the absolute torture of what it is to go through life with my outlook - feeling that every minute of every day, there is an invisible train bearing down on me, and that my world will crumble to pieces in an instant with no warning, and that decades of living without that happening isn't enough to convince myself that I can ever breathe easy - is the most conscientious and selfless act (not to mention thankless) I could ever conceive of.
Because no amount of being smart, being attractive, being witty or insightful - none of it is worth it. I shouldn't have ever come into existence in the first place. But it's not like anybody could have known that before it happened. And since I'm here now, I'm still gonna make the most of it. I'm just saying, it's easier not to start the game than it is to shut it off before you're finished. But, man, life is a cosmic joke. And if there's a God up there (spoiler: there isn't), he's as sick and twisted as his followers say he's kind and all-loving. Sometimes I wish I could just close my eyes and shut it all out. I've seen too much of what goes on behind the curtains. It's no gift being able to read the code. I don't even get to manipulate it!
It's kind of how evolution and the propagation of the species works. It clashes with the sophisticated illusion of civilization we've constructed for ourselves, but spray and pray is the name of the game. You could be forgiven for doubting it if you've never left the middle class bubble that I grew up in. But look around down here at the bottom of the pyramid, and you simply can't avoid stepping in it. It makes you realize that in spite of all that so-called "sapience", we're still just apes in human clothing.
Anyway, from a certain perspective, caring for another generation is the most selfless act you can commit. But in my experience, making the conscious decision (which, to be fair, was easy - given the lack of opportunities handed to me) to sacrifice my chance at passing on my genes, and trying my hand at that delicious form of human clay molding known as parenthood, in order to spare a single other human being even the possibility of experiencing the absolute torture of what it is to go through life with my outlook - feeling that every minute of every day, there is an invisible train bearing down on me, and that my world will crumble to pieces in an instant with no warning, and that decades of living without that happening isn't enough to convince myself that I can ever breathe easy - is the most conscientious and selfless act (not to mention thankless) I could ever conceive of.
Because no amount of being smart, being attractive, being witty or insightful - none of it is worth it. I shouldn't have ever come into existence in the first place. But it's not like anybody could have known that before it happened. And since I'm here now, I'm still gonna make the most of it. I'm just saying, it's easier not to start the game than it is to shut it off before you're finished. But, man, life is a cosmic joke. And if there's a God up there (spoiler: there isn't), he's as sick and twisted as his followers say he's kind and all-loving. Sometimes I wish I could just close my eyes and shut it all out. I've seen too much of what goes on behind the curtains. It's no gift being able to read the code. I don't even get to manipulate it!
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