If there were no people...

It's not that I don't have the desire to go out into the world. But what keeps me holed up inside my protective shell is people, and my fear of them. Ignoring the fact that much of society would simply crumble and lose all meaning in the absence of people, it's interesting to speculate about how my activities would change if all of a sudden I was the only person on the face of the planet.

So what would it be like if I woke up one evening, and the world was conspicuously devoid of humanity?

To start with, I can draw from some actual experiences. Usually, when I wake up and head off to take a shower, I can hear the standard noises coming from downstairs that basically indicate that a person is there. Television, radio, oven beeping, sink flowing, footsteps going back and forth, or up and down stairs, coughing perhaps - indications of human presence. These sorts of things naturally make me very selfconscious, but I do my best to ignore them and go about my business (quietly). However, every once in awhile it'll be quiet - and this is rare - for one reason or another. I'm always more comfortable in those instances (assuming, that is, that the quietness presupposes an absence of presence and not a quiet or concealed (if not intentionally) presence - which actually has a tendency to increase my discomfort, with an absence of sound to mask my own presence underneath, and a concentration, if it were, on any minor breach of that quiet). Sometimes, and this is very rare, it'll be the case that "the one downstairs" is for some reason out and thus dealing with dinner is up to me. Ignoring the potential difficulties of procuring a meal (said difficulties mostly arise from considerations of having to come to an agreement with "the others" on the meal situation, which invariably involves communication, as well as the prospect of potentially having to interact with people in the outside world to procure said meal) - *without* these considerations, all that is left is the supreme comfort of eating at my leisure in what is an empty house. Selfconsciousness goes completely out the window and I can just relax and be myself (which is not at all possible in the usual presence of the standard others).

Anyway, the point of all this babbling on is that in a fundamental and permeating sense, I would be more relaxed and happier and less stressed out in my normal everyday goings on in the absence of people. This, indeed, is the primary motivation for my nocturnal lifestyle - at night, I don't have to worry about people buzzing around here and there, potentially moving in and out of my presence, constantly triggering my anxiety-laden defenses. But even at night there's the need to be relatively quiet to avoid waking others (I can't tell you the percentage of stress arising from the cat's incessant yowling that results from the fear of waking others and otherwise generally attracting attention to my doings, and not from the sheer fact that her loud shrieks are just plain grating to the ear, not to mention that their unrelenting quality simply gets annoying after the first few seconds). At any rate, the absence of people is even better than a nocturnal existence, not just because I enjoy the merits of day (and day has its merits), but also that I have no restrictions on making noise or fears of startling "the sleeping giant", as it were.

Next, the issue of going outside. Particularly in the warmer months, such as we are currently in the midst of, I many days have the desire to go out while the sun is still up and absorb the atmosphere of the air and environment at large. Most of these desires go unfulfilled, as I allow myself to be pulled into the solace and solitude of the myriad distractions so lovingly presented to me via my computer - distractions that do not employ any sort of interpersonal interaction, or even any threat of potential interpersonal interaction (leastwise not involving real faces and real voices in realtime). There are two main obstacles, otherwise, to my gaining access to the outside world. The first is the unknowing guardian who in no formal way bars my passage, but the very act of passing his notice acts as a psychological deterrent to that very passage. I don't want to have to explain my paths or my intentions, and I don't want to have to suffer the unavoidable, if unfounded, mental shilly-shallying about foreign conjectures as to said paths and intentions, not to mention the imagined potential value judgements that could then be applied, and the myriad avenues of thought and action and judgement that those presume...

In addition to all that is the simple fact that, except in the relative emptiness of night (and under the cloak of darkness), *there are people out there, in the world*. And "people" is not something I have much desire to interact with. Surely, one can avoid interaction, but this is not an airtight solution. If one were to approach me, I would be even more disinclined to shrug them off (except in a polite and convenient manner if at all possible), than to provide for them nothing but the friendliest and most amicable front I can muster (which may or may not be saying much). However, even without interaction, or even threat of interaction, is the constant buzzing of imagined foreign perceptions. Even in the absence of people - provided that it is understood that there *are* people, just not noticeably within range. But in the knowing absence of people - where they are not just out of sight, out of mind, but actually completely and utterly out of the equation, all of the above neurosis is rendered completely nonexistent.

So, in the true absence of people, I would go outside a lot, and enjoy the weather. I would go for walks much more often, and in daylight. I would ride my bike places. I would practice guitar outdoors - which is very nice to do in the warm weather (I have done it but a few times, and never any farther than the back porch). I would go out and explore the world and what it has to offer, without the people buzz to frighten me. I would take my camera, and I would take many pictures of all kinds of beautiful scenes. One thing that causes me to fear carrying a camera around and doing the photographer thing in public is an extension of that selfconsciousness, and the fear of the possibility of my encroaching on another's sense of personal privacy. Whether pointing a camera at a person (even if it is just the general direction, or at a person way off in the distance) or even just at a person's house, or car, or table at a restaurant, or pet, or whatever else, I fear not only people's (inter)reactions, whether positive or (much worse) negative, but also the value judgements aforementioned. "Why is that person pointing that camera at that house." "Why is that person taking pictures of that." "What is that person thinking." "Is he dangerous." "Is he eccentric." Et cetera.

I think perhaps I have gotten my point across, if my language is a bit verbose and highly unpolished. But this is more akin to the sort of spontaneous thinking that goes on (constantly) in my head, minus the thinking over (and over thinking) that generally goes into presenting any of my ideas to an outside observer.

And, in closing, it is imperative that I mention that, barring a possible chemical solution I have yet to try, my neurosis is simply NOT A THING THAT CAN JUST BE "SWITCHED OFF" (i.e., "just stop thinking/worrying about it"). Thank you.

Nudity for the sake of nudity

I recently watched a film from the mid-70's titled Immoral Tales, which consists of four unconnected stories of carnal immorality, that basically amounts to softcore porn. In the first tale, a young man lures his all-too-willing cousin onto a rocky beach to impart a hands-on (or rather, mouth-on) lesson about the tidal force residing within the male genitalia. Note that none of these stories are filmed explicitly - though the second one comes pretty close. It is about a young virginal Christophile confined to her room, wherein she pleasures herself passionately to a combination of smutty literature and religious texts (to completely ignore the not insignificant contribution of the cucumber...). The third tale tells the story of Elizabeth Bathory - one of my personal favorite historical figures - who earned a reputation for her habit of bathing in the fresh blood of young virgins, believing it would restore her vitality. In this adaptation of the Blood Countess' legacy, there are copious amounts of naked flesh, but unlike the Bathory segment in Hostel: Part II, the violence is largely implied. The final debauched tale in this immoral collection recounts the incestuously orgiastic impulses of one Pope Alexander VI, interspersed with scenes of Friar Hyeronimus Savonarola speaking out against the Church's improprieties - that is, until he is seized and burned at the stake.


The reason I bring this up relates to the aforementioned copious amounts of naked flesh in the Bathory segment. Call me a freak, call me a pervert, call me a red-blooded male, but I derive considerable enjoyment out of seeing a bunch of attractive young women prancing around completely nude. I mean, it sounds like a pretty typical male fantasy right? So why is it so hard to find? Outside of hardcore porn at least. In mainstream films, if there is such a scene, it will usually involve extensive "modesty" either in the form of avoiding complete nudity or utilizing "shy" or "prudish" camera angles, and will generally not last for a significant length of time.


So how come it's so hard to find extensive unselfconscious nude scenes of that sort? At least outside of hardcore porn. I could sit for two hours and watch a bunch of young naked women doing, well, just about anything really. And as a matter of fact, I think the presence of an obvious sexual element could actually detract from the enjoyment of the nudity itself. I think this is another example of our culture's misguided confoundment about the distinction between nudity and sex.

And to preemptively counter a potential argument - "if it's not about sex, then why does it matter that the women are young and attractive?" - I have only to point out our culture's misguided confoundment about the distinction between sex and eroticism. Admittedly, it's a much more subtle distinction than that between nudity and sex, but I think it's important enough to warrant recognition.

I should stop watching so many movies...

Because it's getting to the point where I'm seeing the same faces in everything I watch. And it's starting to weird me out. There's this quirkily distinct actress named Jane Adams whom I had never seen before until I watched Happiness. Now, she's in like every other movie I watch. And then there's Kate Winslet, who was in Quills. Both of those actresses are in both Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and a little movie called Little Children. And that really threw me off... The latter movie also happened to have Patrick Wilson (who was also Nite Owl in the Watchmen movie), in another role to expand my knowledge of his work beyond what I knew of him in Hard Candy. And do you know who else was in Little Children? Jennifer Connelly, who was also in A Beautiful Mind. These are all movies I've watched recently. -_- It's like the acting pool dried up or something...

As for the minor roles, Joaquin Phoenix and Michael Caine were both in Quills, and Elijah Wood and Kirsten Dunst were both in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. So much for Johnny Cash, Austin Powers' father (I bet there are people who would kill me for knowing him primarily for that role), Frodo Baggins, and Mary Jane... Maybe I should just stick to those foreign films. >.>

Jodie Foster cosplays White Mage

I couldn't help but notice that the Moroccan dress Jodie Foster dons for much of the 1976 mystery/suspense/thriller The Little Girl Who Lives Down The Lane bears a striking resemblance to the iconic imagery of the white mage from the Final Fantasy franchise. Bearing in mind that the movie was released a full decade before the first Final Fantasy game, I think it's a pretty amusing coincidence. See for yourself:


See, she even has a scene where she gets to spar with what could only be described as a black mage! It's just too bad she never puts the hood up...

So I think it's down to the point that the only way I can foresee there being any hope for me, is to get some kind of help. Because, unless outside forces were to push me into places I don't want to be, I'm not going anywhere just by myself. The trouble is, wanting help and asking for help are two different things. Every single time I look up a different "help center" type website, something turns me off. Either it'll mention Jesus, or it'll be too streamlined ("Use This Ten Step Process And You'll Be Cured For Life! followed by a toothy, shit-eating grin"), or it'll just give me a bunch of information I already know. The paradox is, reading stuff isn't gonna help me - I need to talk to someone, but the last thing I want to do is talk to anyone.

It's the same problem it's always been. Getting help is the thing I'm most afraid to do. But no matter what I think about my projected future, if there is *any* chance of me accomplishing anything that'll give me a feeling of self-worth and satisfaction in my life (and there are things I would like to do), it can *only* be possible if I find some way around this anxiety thing. I think the more motivation I have, for the things I'd like to accomplish, the more I will be internally pushed towards crossing the uncrossable threshold.

There's an inner, spiritual if you will, part to me, and there's the concrete body. My inner part wants to move forward, but the concrete part is adamant in its position. If I could move forward inwardly only, like through my dreams, there wouldn't be a problem. But something's gotta make my body move. And I really don't think I have that power.

I just wish, of all the problems I have, talking to people wasn't one of them. Talking to people has the potential to solve any other problem. I guess people that are good at talking to people might envy a better ability to turn within themselves and analyze their problems from that perspective - something I am excessively good at doing. So maybe it's just a matter of my perspective vs. theirs. But still, I can't describe how much I wish I didn't have that problem.

God, it's like I'm so motivated to do something, but then I look at the site and it completely, utterly, inexorably turns me off... Like walking into a house fully ready to party and then noticing everybody else there is just a plastic doll.

Frozen in Time

Almost six years ago (according to my purchase history on Amazon.com), early in my second year at college, I remember holing myself up in the campus library (probably to get some privacy and escape the oppression of having a roommate I wasn't particularly chummy with) to do some research/homework/studying. I located myself in one of the isolated rooms off to either side on one of the lower floors, where I could close the door (though the room had large interior windows), and have the solitude I sought. I don't remember what I was working on then, but I had just received two albums which would have a massive impact on me, which I listened to through my headphones, playing on my portable discman.

Those two albums were Ten Years After's widely regarded 'Recorded Live' album, and a double shot of two Robin Trower albums on one disc - his third album 'For Earth Below', and the followup live album (simply titled 'Live'). It was my first formal introduction (though I had subconscious memories of Ten Years After's music which stirred within me while I listened to the songs on the album, via unremembered experiences from my childhood, considering that TYA has long been one of my dad's favorite rock bands) to two musical artists that would instantly become favorites.

And tonight, almost six years later, it would appear that little has changed, as I anxiously withdraw from the patriotic masturbation of the night's festivities, and hole myself up in my protective cocoon, though not completely separated from the ideological tyranny of society. I throw on my headphones (a rare act these days), to further retreat into my intellectual curiosities - perhaps the only thing that sustains me. By pure circumstance, the playing of a track (Slow Blues in 'C' - always one of my favorites) from the aforementioned 'Recorded Live' album on the blues radio stream I've been listening to regularly compels me to throw on those two albums in memoriam of that past experience I have here related. And so I listen, while studying "isolated minority syndrome"...

Fetish on Flickr

The more repressed and prudish members of Flickr tend to complain about the pornographic "element" on the site - those who use it for more sexual than artistic purposes (despite the presence of content filters). I, for one, though honestly not all that interested in pornography, as I am far more turned on by art, support the relative freedom of the site, intrinsically, as I am a freedom fighter and a hater of censorship and all that. But one thing that's vaguely interesting to do (if you've got the stomach), is to glance at random people's favorites - it can give you a pretty neat insight into a person's tastes. Ignoring the art lovers, since this is a post about porn, I have to say that the majority of people's sexual interests I see are rather unappealing to me. This is not surprising, as we're talking specific personal tastes here, but one overarching quality I can't help but notice is how grotesque and actually repulsive a lot of it is. I have a hard time imagining that people actually get off to this stuff. Granted, my own tastes aren't exactly normalized, but I like to think (at the risk of succumbing to elitism) they're at least "cleaner" than what I'm seeing. I suppose that's just part of who I am - and related to my interest in art over porn. I respond to beauty, not vulgarity...