Thinking About It
The last time I spent four hours on the phone with anybody, it was so many years ago it was in another life; and I can't remember whom it was with.
WJ rang me out of the blue this afternoon. (Good to know I'm not the only person still on her ass, bumming.) We talked about a lot of stuff: the death penalty, free will, the Greek philosophers, Shakespeare, literature, religion, our mutual past, mutual friends, current situations, idiosyncrasies ...
And at the end of it, I realized a couple of things: one, this is one person way, way, way more analytical than I am; and two, we didn't once talk about what and how we feel, only what we think about what and how we feel, and why we feel the way we feel.
Like me (and prolly much more than me), he dissects everything he feels, reads up on why human beings feel the way the feel, contemplates about what he's read, and in the end, can prolly explain everything ... but doesn't feel anymore.
I told him I'm trying very hard to be happy here, and he asked, "What is happiness?"
"You can't define happiness!" I shot back. "You just ... feel it."
He went on to explain why human beings feel happy, and why they tend to be more sensitive to unhappy feelings - he has an explanation for everything, and every explanation is more or less scientific.
He didn't claim to be happy, but he said he is contented; and also, while he may not feel happy, he doesn't feel unhappy either. (And he explained why he feels the way he does.) So there I was thinking, either you're damn Zen about life, or you're a robot.
Later, I asked him if there were anything - anything at all - he feels strongly and passionately for, something he loves doing, something he can't live without ... and he asked me for examples.
If there were something I can't live without, I guess it'd have to be - I don't know - creation, prolly. I can't be happy if I didn't create something - scribble something, doodle something, or even make up a little tune. And telling him all this, it suddenly occurred to me that the very things that give me the greatest pleasure are also the greatest banes of my existence.
The one day I can't scribble or doodle, when there is a void between my ears (okay, so there usually is a vacuum there anyway, but that's beside the point), when I couldn't create something - that is I'll go insane or kill myself. Just running out of words or ideas makes me feel out of sorts and depressed.
He mulled over it for a short moment, and then said, "No. There's nothing like that in my life."
And I screeched, "But how can you live like that? To not feel strongly about anything at all in life?"
I could almost hear his shrug as he replied, "Why not? Everybody's different."
"Yeah - still ...!" But I gave up. He was right; and what's more, he doesn't feel unhappy or depressed, and he's contented. That contentment counts for a lot. I used to feel contented, maybe a couple of years ago, but contentment had since fled from my life. Maybe more than happiness and love, I want contentment. If I were contented, I wouldn't feel like my life, my existence, is wanting anything at all.
Our conversation was kaleidoscopic, our arguments circular. The hours flew by. I was surprised they numbered four.
We hung up having made vague plans to meet in the new year. And, as our conversations are wont to since we were fourteen, I will continue to ponder on the things we discussed.
Don't think so much, I exhorted him time and again, as he did me. But we both know we can never stop thinking.
So we just laughed.
The best the both of us could prolly do is to think about not thinking so much all the time.
(23:23 SGT)
WJ rang me out of the blue this afternoon. (Good to know I'm not the only person still on her ass, bumming.) We talked about a lot of stuff: the death penalty, free will, the Greek philosophers, Shakespeare, literature, religion, our mutual past, mutual friends, current situations, idiosyncrasies ...
And at the end of it, I realized a couple of things: one, this is one person way, way, way more analytical than I am; and two, we didn't once talk about what and how we feel, only what we think about what and how we feel, and why we feel the way we feel.
Like me (and prolly much more than me), he dissects everything he feels, reads up on why human beings feel the way the feel, contemplates about what he's read, and in the end, can prolly explain everything ... but doesn't feel anymore.
I told him I'm trying very hard to be happy here, and he asked, "What is happiness?"
"You can't define happiness!" I shot back. "You just ... feel it."
He went on to explain why human beings feel happy, and why they tend to be more sensitive to unhappy feelings - he has an explanation for everything, and every explanation is more or less scientific.
He didn't claim to be happy, but he said he is contented; and also, while he may not feel happy, he doesn't feel unhappy either. (And he explained why he feels the way he does.) So there I was thinking, either you're damn Zen about life, or you're a robot.
Later, I asked him if there were anything - anything at all - he feels strongly and passionately for, something he loves doing, something he can't live without ... and he asked me for examples.
If there were something I can't live without, I guess it'd have to be - I don't know - creation, prolly. I can't be happy if I didn't create something - scribble something, doodle something, or even make up a little tune. And telling him all this, it suddenly occurred to me that the very things that give me the greatest pleasure are also the greatest banes of my existence.
The one day I can't scribble or doodle, when there is a void between my ears (okay, so there usually is a vacuum there anyway, but that's beside the point), when I couldn't create something - that is I'll go insane or kill myself. Just running out of words or ideas makes me feel out of sorts and depressed.
He mulled over it for a short moment, and then said, "No. There's nothing like that in my life."
And I screeched, "But how can you live like that? To not feel strongly about anything at all in life?"
I could almost hear his shrug as he replied, "Why not? Everybody's different."
"Yeah - still ...!" But I gave up. He was right; and what's more, he doesn't feel unhappy or depressed, and he's contented. That contentment counts for a lot. I used to feel contented, maybe a couple of years ago, but contentment had since fled from my life. Maybe more than happiness and love, I want contentment. If I were contented, I wouldn't feel like my life, my existence, is wanting anything at all.
Our conversation was kaleidoscopic, our arguments circular. The hours flew by. I was surprised they numbered four.
We hung up having made vague plans to meet in the new year. And, as our conversations are wont to since we were fourteen, I will continue to ponder on the things we discussed.
Don't think so much, I exhorted him time and again, as he did me. But we both know we can never stop thinking.
So we just laughed.
The best the both of us could prolly do is to think about not thinking so much all the time.
(23:23 SGT)
posted by s at 04:23
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