Last week, I had the pleasure (note that word—it will come up again) of reading from my latest book to a group of people gathered at a literary event. I do this from time-to-time because it allegedly helps sell books, though the true purpose behind these gatherings is promoting literature, sharing creativity, engaging with other writers and literary citizens, and honoring the oral tradition of literature, especially poetry.
As much as I can be accused of cynicism and having a “caustic wit” (as said by a former manager at my first office gig before I knew to keep my mouth shut), I do believe in the true idea behind literary gatherings, as described above. Because I’ve never sold many books at any of these events. Not enough, at least, to justify leaving the comfort of my apartment. In this way, I might be called, if not an optimist, an idealist.
At this reading, I shared a bit from my book that I think went over well. A few chuckles and some nice words after, always appreciated. One friend said about the passage I shared, “Acerbic as always.” Another person, who enjoyed the spectacle enough to buy a book, asked if I’ve always been this way. I assume they meant bitter.
I suspect people might describe me as a relatively amiable fellow. Sarcastic and fatalistic, sure, but happy to be among good friends, smiling as much as scowling, if not more. In short: I feel I project a mostly sunny vibe. But if you read my stuff, you’d probably disagree.
At times, I am a bitter, disappointed, frustrated, angry, disillusioned, disaffected, snarky bastard given to the darkest humor and seemingly nihilistic philosophies. “Seemingly” because nihilism is a lazy accusation. I am not nihilistic. Nihilism is easy. And kinda dumb. Existentialism is more the meat. And absurdism even closer to what I might claim as a governing worldview. Because an absurdist does not cover up the horrors of existence with platitudes, positive or negative. They see the struggle, the meaninglessness, and they fight anyway. Anyone can give up. Where’s the fun in that?
If there’s an aspect of modern life, specifically in the U. S. of A., that I don’t love, it’s the imperative to enjoy. Zizek pointed out the way Americans feel an obligation to be happy. It’s baked into our advertisements, pop music, and “Live your best life” T-shirt slogans. It’s not just a desire for joy, thoroughly understandable; it’s the necessity for it. Not being joyous in the land of the free global center for first world capitalist material pleasures is an admission of failure, a glaring fault. Growing up, I heard people wonder, “Who can’t be happy with all of this?” Because the “good life” was not a goal but an edict.
ISLES, that wonderful band from the UK, have a record called Joy as an Act of Resistance. While the record is great, the title conveys something I rather like: that which is being resisted by joy requires some consideration. I mean, you can’t resist without acknowledgement. Joy is not simply the denial of horror so much as the rebellion against it, the refusal to let it completely consume us. And one can find joy in resistance and fight, maybe better joy than escapist pleasure affords.
To be sure, most people can both experience joy and keep an eye on the creeping nightmare, but I suspect we’ve been made to feel that talking about, feeling, or processing anything other than joy is bad bad bad
I have more than a few friends who wring joy from aesthetic pursuits, alcohol and drugs, or “retail therapy.” (I do the same, for the record, so don’t @ me, ideal and possibly nonexistent reader.) I know avowed sensualists, Wildean aesthetes, bone marrow and truffle fry fine diners, collectors of rarities, fashion designer zealots, and others who may bemoan capitalism as quickly as they apply its balm. I do my version of this—I buy more than I need. I know the temporary joy or exchanging money for shinny things. I like my single malts and pretty books, even the ones I may never read. I prefer clothes that are as attractive as they are comfortable and will shell out sums that once would have sickened me just so I can have another flat cap or handsome jacket. But I know that none of this equals meaningful action. To quote Marc Maron, I’m just buffering disappointment.
Pleasure is the thing. We find temporary pleasure in the promise of capitalist joy. We see anything impeding pleasure as wrong, an obstacle that must not be scaled so much as obliterated. Much has been made of the need for friction, so much that I don’t need to get too deep into all that. I can say that the lure of technology and the looming AI “revolution” will be a world without friction where we can enjoy unobstructed pleasure.
Call me (again) cynical, but I don’t buy it. What world will we create that is considerably better? What world have we created already? What frictions are left that are so terrible? Obviously, plenty, and my questions betray plenty of privilege, but forgetting for a minute the vast societies that still want for clean water and the basic infrastructure of the developed world, what more does, say, the USA need? Obviously a lot, most pertaining to socio-political matters, none of which will be addressed by new gadgets. I suppose as the disparities deepen and the middle class vanishes and literacy evaporates and democracy fully crumbles, we’ll have better CGI in our movies and faster delivery from Uber Eats. Pleasures fast and base!
The place where I find the worst examples of human behavior, mine definitely included, is social media. I am the worst version of myself when I’m on Facebook. I’m a slightly better version of Vince on Instagram, as that is mostly the Vince who posts photos and enjoys self-absorption without a lot of words making things worse. My friends on social media fall neatly into one these groups: those who wish to “keep it light” and often strike me as playing on while the Titanic sinks, those who rage against the machine and exhaust themselves exercising futile muscles, and those who just want to pick fights and talk shit. The first group bugs me the most. I get the tendency of the second—they’re pissed and they need an outlet, however unhealthy. The third are also looking for an outlet, through their indignation is considerably less righteous. The first… what are they (we) doing sharing evidence of our best lives and our lovely dinners and our gaudy baubles? I’m as delusional, distracted, and dopamine addicted as the next fucker, sure, but I often suspect the next fucker thinks their solace in pleasure is somehow noble. At least they’re not sharing articles about whatever the hell Trump did this week or yelling at people for using socially outdated language. No, they’re (we’re) just feeding data to machines, making Zuckerberg richer, and furthering a truly dumb culture.
But it’s fun!
Another criticism leveled my way: pessimism. Okay, fine. A little. But I’ve always found that optimism and privilege go hand-in-hand. And, really, I’m not a total pessimist. Just a frustrated romantic. Now that I’m thinking of it, perhaps the reason these labels sting a bit is because they’re supposed to. Joyful optimism is enviable elevation of oneself above the world-weary. It suggests superiority, thus the barbs of “pessimist” and “cynic.” But this may be another reason why I sometimes find positivity toxic. There’s an ugly condescension in there along with the before-mentioned social advantage. It’s easy to be an optimist. There have never before been so many distractions from that which might engender pessimism. And while I can’t advise succumbing to total pessimism, a dash of jaded realism goes a long way, especially when mixed with hope. Hope is far more nourishing than optimism and joy. Transient by nature, joy needs constant chasing. It’s too fleeting to ever be sustainable or world changing.
None of these abstractions are mutually exclusive. I suspect we are all perpetually wavering between hope and despair. It’s understandable that we’d want to push away the dark via whatever device, content, cloying pop song, or delicious poison we find. I’m just trying to find balance. Best we can do, right? (How pessimistic.)
