Context (from Both Sides Now)

Somewhere between the fantasy of who I’d like to be and the consequences of behaving as I do lies my true identity. I’m not sure exactly who that is, but I have a feeling I’d be a bit disappointed if I were to see him through the eyes of those around me. I know we’re not supposed to concern ourselves with other people’s perceptions, and I know that to compare oneself to others inevitably results in either envy or a sense of superiority – but, human as I am, I can’t help but do it. I can’t help but compare myself to everyone around me in a never-ending attempt at defining myself.

It’s like when you don’t know what a word you’ve stumbled across means, and you’re too lazy to look it up. So you rely on the second-best method of determining definition. You fall back onto context. Just read all the words around it, you tell yourself, and you’ll get a sense of what that pesky little unknown word means. Read the sentence as many times as it takes. If that doesn’t work, then read the whole paragraph – and maybe even the whole page – again and again. And in the event you don’t wind up with an idea as to what that pesky little word means, keep doing this. Do this again and again until you’re so familiar with everything around your question that you no longer actually question the question, but you start to question everything around it. Such is the nature of identity politics.

Ironically, we poor souls who have to search for self-definition by context are the lucky ones. Since we don’t have a ready-made sound byte that sums up our role in society, we have to look within the cracks. From time to time I’ve had the (mis)fortune of having a label: gay, queer, radical faerie, whore, party boy… But eventually, in accordance with the edict, “As soon as you define yourself as something, you’ve outlived it,” my labels have worn thin.

So I like to joke that “I’ve looked at _____ from both sides now.” (Fill in the blank. Gay, queer, radical faerie, party boy…) Which is to say that, even when I had a label to latch onto, I was still perouzing the context.

I’m not too sure if I can ever adequately describe the deflation that came with my recognizing that queer politics were ultimately identity politics, and that I just plain couldn’t anymore put much stock into a political (sub)structure that was based upon the notion of identity. Sure, all politics eventually boil down to an assertion of some identity (take, for example, America’s beloved preamble, “We, the people…” -- I mean, just who are “the people?”), but minority politics in particular rely on identities that are utterly not self-imposed. Minority politics are the politics of the “others,” and the others couldn’t exist without the powerstructure they’re trying to deconstruct, which defines their very “other-ness.” In fact, as queer politics have been so accurate in asserting, even the powerstructure relies upon everything that it is not to assert whatever it is. (E.g.: heterosexuality, instead of defining itself by what it is, insists upon defining iteslf by what it isn’t – as uttered by the straight male mantra, “I’m not gay.” ) Sleep only with members of the oppostite sex and you're surely hetero. But sleep with a member of your own sex, even once, and you're potentially gay forever -- no matter how much you might want to write it off as an "experiment." Is the converse the same for homosexuals? Hardly. Once gay, forever gay -- even if one starts bopping members of the opposite sex.

Shifty business, this business of identity. In a way, the minorities have it easier than those struggling to exist within the powerstructure. Once declared as black, Latin, Asian, female, gay, handicapped or any other multitude of sub-strata, one’s identity is sealed, as an ostensible “lesser-than.” And what are they “lesser” than? The powerstructure that so precariously defines itself by not being whatever it is that comprises its minorities.

PHEW! Am I the only one who’s getting tired of this misery-fest? Am I the only one who wants to reach beyond complaining about how bad it is to be “us” and strive to be whatever it is we – the human race – might be?

Despite my unfashionable intentions, the fashionable “lesser-than’s” proceed to construct entire identites and subsequent political movements based upon said identities – and for some reason, as far as I can see, they stop looking for any definition (or more importanly, context) beyond that which has labeled them “lesser-than.”

Somewhere between the fantasy of who these people think they are and the consequences of how they behave lies their true identity. Somewhere between the fantasy of who I’d like to be and the consequences of how I behave lies my true identity. My true identity, for now. Within this context. Which is a swimming-pool of minority politics. Which is a cesspool of identity politics.

I’m not destined to be a popular man. I’m not the next voice of the queer movement. I’m just a kooky white homosexual guy who’s been described as being “too smart for his own good.” That phrase fascinates me, because I’ve yet to truly understand what it means. It feels like a curse of some sort.

So if you want to know why I rely on sex, drugs and escapism, maybe now you have a better idea. Somewhere between my ideal self and the essence of my hedonism lies the man I might someday be. If only I could identify him. For a time.

Why Can't I Be THEM?

Successful people have no problem perpetuating whatever it is that makes them successful. Famous people don’t hesitate to create whatever they’re compelled to create. Geniuses, from what I’ve been able to conclude, have no choice but to indulge in obsessing on whatever it is they’re geniuses “at.”

I want to be either successful, famous, or a genius. I want to concern myself with only whatever my talents dictate I should be concerned – and nothing else.

Successful people would tell me that’s impossible – that I’d still have to make time for the gym, the diet, and all the other minutia that make up everyday life. Famous people would agree, but they'd probably be incapable of not reminding me that they no longer needed to tend to the minutia (they only need to focus - and I mean focus - on the gym and the diet). Only Geniuses would understand what I was trying to say, if only they were able to. But they’re too concerned with whatever they’re geniuses “at,” so they couldn’t possibly understand anything other than whatever it is they’re so busy understanding.

So what I’m presently blaming for my lack of achieving more, as a writer, is my bourgeois upbringing. I’ve been fighting it all my life. It’s probably less of a surprise to those of you who know me well than it is to me, because it shows so much on the outside while I continue to battle it on the inside. I’m addicted to comfort. I’m addicted to domestic stability. It’s a comfort and a stability the likes of which probably don’t even register on the “comfort/stability” scale compared to the sensibilities of the people I went to high school and college with, and it’s a comfort and stability that only requires a net monthly income of $2,500 (put THAT in your bourgeois hat and smoke it!), but it’s a requisite comfort/stability element nonetheless. And my biggest problem is that I will not allow myself to indulge in artistic endeavors until that utterly self-imposed level of “security” has been attained. (Thank you very fucking much, Dr. Maslow!) I’ve attained it before, but I lose it every time I move to a new town.

Some artists can live in other people’s homes. Some artists can remain with their parents. Some artists can move to a new city and immediately begin pursuing their art, because they don’t concern themselves with where or to what capacity they might be living. They surf from couch to couch or they land shares with one to several roommates and from that point on they stop worrying about their standard of living. They just live - apparently because they’re alive - and that’s all the attention they pay to the matter of living.

I’m not like that. I’m bourgeois as hell. I’ve gotta have a place that I can call my own. And that place has to look nice. It has to have style, even if that style is 20th Century American bohemian. And most importantly, that place has to be filled with intention. And by “intention,” I mean love.

When I spackle, sand and paint a corner – I’m making love to it. When I spend five hours at the paint store, staring at chips and matching color schemes, I’m deliberating my future. I’m sensitive to my environment. I notice my walls, my ceiling, and my floors every day. That, I suppose, is the bourgeois in me. (Or is it the artist in me? My personal jury is still “out.” But for the sake of this argument, that’s the bourgeois in me.) I was raised in a modest yet impeccable home, and to this day I strive to maintain a homefront – as modest as it might be – that is impeccable.

My obsessions are bi-polar. My obsessions are torn. My obsessions are at odds with each other – until they’ve had enough time to sort themselves out. This is my process. I know this because I’ve lived it four times (Portland [Maine], San Francisco, Los Angeles, and now New York). The bourgeois part of me will not set the artistic side of me free until the apartment has been obtained, the walls have been painted, and every last detail pertaining to the day-to-day living in that apartment has been established. This includes determining where the cleaning supplies go; where the pots and pans are stored; and where the monthly bills are received, paid, and subsequently filed. Once all these aspects of day-to-day living are secured, they are never changed. (One dear friend in LA commented that, during seven years of residence there, I never even moved the coasters on the coffee table once I’d determined where they were to be placed.) Such is the nature of my bourgeois side. I’m too fussy to tolerate surfing couches. I’m too middle-class to endure not having my own slice of middle-class life.

Regardless, I don’t ask for much. As middle-class as I am, I’m not desperate for a mortgage or an SUV. I only desire my own peculiar bohemian corner of the world. And I never fail to get it. But doing so, especially when it comes in the form of moving from one metropolitan area to another, costs. It costs money, time – and effort. The effort I put into putting myself up in a new town always detracts from my ability to crank out the art. That’s what makes me a bourgeois bohemian. That’s why I had to build a bed loft, a bar, and paint all my walls before I could start this blog.

Well, within the definitions I set forth when I began this psycho-babble, I suppose that would place me within the realm of the successful. It’s an eventual "successful," but I think I possess certain present elements of success nonetheless. Successful people are the ones who are concerned with the big picture as well as the minutia. I don’t have any problem "compelling myself into producing whatever it is I produce” – once my domicile has been adequately established.

So I’m probably not going to be famous, and I’m certainly no genius.

Hmm. "Successful?” Guess I’ll take it. In due (bourgeois) time. It’s not as if the famous and the geniuses don’t pay for their lots in life in their own, particular ways. Nobody escapes this life free of the requirements this life imposes on us – even if it’s as basic as wiping our asses. Find me a genius who doesn’t have to do that, and I’ll show you Stephen Hawking. You wanna be him?

I don’t.

(Sorry I even started this.)

Schadenfreude (Ger.)

Sooner or later this topic had to come up. Based on the feedback I’ve gotten from many of you – both written and verbal – it appears that one of the main attractions to my new blog is nothing less than what is defined and described by one of Avenue Q’s songs: “Schadenfreude.” To those of you who have seen the show, I toss an immediate “Well, then, fuck you...” (Even though I completely agreee.) And for those of you who haven’t seen it, let me preface all this with the exact same statement, just to get it out of the way.

Schadenfreude, as Webster* defines it, is “enjoyment obtained from the troubles of others.” As Avenue Q elaborates, the phenomenon can be illustrated as such:

D'ja ever clap when a waitress falls and drops a tray of glasses?

Yeah...

And ain't it fun to watch figure skaters falling on their asses?

Sure!

And don'tcha feel all warm and cozy,Watching people out in the rain!

You bet!

That's… Schadenfreude! People taking pleasure in your pain!

Oh, Schadenfreude, huh? What's that, some kinda Nazi word?

Yup! It's German for "happiness at the misfortune of others!"

Apparently, the reason my audience (however small it may be) finds my blog entries entertaining is none other than the same reason these actors like to watch skaters fall on their asses. My “40+-but-still-a-bohemian” life, as astute as I would like to portray its observations to be, is basically nothing more than something that helps those who didn’t make the same mistakes I did feel good about having made the decisions they made. It’s an outlet and a penance all at once. Just click onto it and you can feel guilty and repentant simultaneously.

I kid the audience. It’s not that severe. But you have to admit – as many of you have already admitted – that reading about my life somehow informs your perceptions of your own lives. I don’t mind telling you, that’s exactly what I’m aiming for. If I have to suffer a little bit of, “Christ, I’m glad that’s not me living that way!” to get my point across, well then – So be it.

I have the unlucky karma of being an artist. I call it unlucky not because it’s particularly difficult to identify as an artist, but because, as present sociological influences would have it, artists are not considered to be at all successful unless they achieve fame. You don’t hear folks, at this point in history, referring to doctors, lawyers, scientists or professors as being “unsuccessful” simply because they haven’t managed to become famous doctors, lawyers, scientists or professors. Rather, our present society tends to automatically look upon anyone who pursues and actualizes any of these professions as “successful,” by the sheer virtue of the individual’s ability to actualize the profession. Not so for the artist.

The artist, in our present society, is viewed as a rebel and a virtual derelict. S/he is accused of being “lazy” because s/he is not willing to dedicate the time and effort that it takes to become “sucessful” in another, more “legitimate,” profession. Instead, the artist pursues the virtually insane objective of creating something out of nothing – for no apparent reason other than the will and desire to create. Unless fame is achieved, there is no high-paying profession that justifies the artists’ endeavors. Even if the artist pursues an advanced degree, there is no certainty that s/he will be able to earn enough as an artist to pay off his or her student loans. At least doctors or lawyers can commence payments upon entering their respective fields, regardless of how many other “dues” they must “pay” before attaining full professional status.

So the Schadenfreude for y’all, whenever you tune into Moore and More, is in watching my lazy, crazy artistic life unfold. Part of your interest (and you can’t deny it because many of you have already admitted it) is in reassuring yourselves that you made the “right” decisions in your lives – decisions that led you far away from having to deal with any of the extreme (albeit self-imposed, I know) shit that I have to deal with.

Well, that’s exactly what I want you to do. That’s exactly what I want you to think. Not that you’re superior because you made certain decisions that I didn’t – but that there is an obvious difference between our respective approaches to life. I’m an emotional exhibitionist. I wear my life on my sleeve. I think that’s a big part of my artistic mission. I think it’s a big part of the reason I’m here, on this planet. If we have to trivialize my karma by calling it Schadenfreude, well then – like I’ve already said – So be it.

But bear in mind: there’s a certain freedom a waitress who’s just dropped a tray of dishes has. There’s a particular kind of liberty a skater who’s just fallen on her ass possesses. It’s freedom from the fear of falling. Those of us who have just fallen have nothing to fear; we have only to look forward to getting up and starting over. Those of us who’ve been coasting all the while, however, remain consumed with the fear of falling – often to the point of paralysis. These people just let momentum carry them along, hoping to be able to blame it if ever they happen to fall. But momentum’s a funny thing, because it’s self-imposed. We can’t blame our momentum for anything, because we create it.

At least we sources of Schadenfreude recognize our own responsibility for the predicaments we’ve created. At least our embarrassment allows us to clearly see the exact nature of our situations. And the funny thing is, we’re laughing, too. We’re laughing, and we’re pointing right back at ya’. So if it makes you feel better to read, beloved audience, then by all means – keep reading. It sure makes me feel better to keep writing. After all, what have I got to lose?

*Go to http://www.m-w.com/cgi-bin/dictionary?book=Dictionary&va=schadenfreude for pronunciation (esp. if you're wired for sound).