And it works and it doesn't...

There's probably some theory, perhaps a psychoanalytic one, which posits that everything we do is purely narcissistic and driven by our desire for _________ (blank[ets]?).

So I'm hanging out with this insecurely attached cat. He wants to play, which he demonstrates by walking over to me and meowing, or occasionally batting random objects (myself included). However, when I start playing with him he is interested for a very short period of time - a couple of minutes at most. It appears that he's not so much interested in my actively attending to him, so much as he doesn't want me to attend to anything else. When I was trying to sleep he would come and sit next to me, sometimes nibbling at my fingertips. He would walk on top of me with an occasional meow to make sure I was registering his presence. He would let me pet him for a few strokes of his shiny coat (shout out to "Lovage" and their clever lyrics), and then either bite me or move away just out of my reach.

I am entirely willing to admit that I'm projecting, but it seems like he wants attention/affection but does not know how to deal with it. He does not seem to be a cat at peace, and as such I relate to him immensely. I don't entirely know why I'm not at peace, though. Of course, I have my novel hypotheses, emerging theories, and established laws (notably Murphy's law).

When I have my sane/functional face on, I am a busy productive member of society. Why? I guess because I care about stuff. That statement is more true than not. I desperately want life to have meaning and the world to be a good place (as good as possible, however terrible that may be). I've learned that I can tell people about my research, my "activism", my this and that and it can sound pretty impressive. But anything can sound impressive, especially to someone who is not familiar with the context. My undergrads thought they were impressive for finishing a paper on time. And relative to some of their classmates, I suppose they are. Okay, this is getting a bit rambly, but I guess my point is there is a way to paint me (and virtually anyone) as an earnest decent human being who has a set of interests and is just trying to do his best with his lot in life. And to a large extent that's true. But extend that further and it's painfully obvious that I am dangerously over-extended.

There's a poem by Igor Talkov called something like "And now we've quieted down":


А теперь мы с тобой притихли,
Истощили нервный запас,
К неудачам давно привыкли,
А удачи пугают нас.


Pardon my half-assed translation. I've only had experience translating official documents (formal language, not poetry):

And now we've quieted down
Used up our mental/emotional (the root in russian is actually "nerve") reserves
We got used to misfortunes long ago
But good fortune frightens us

The poem is about metamorphosis, and I don't imagine he intended it in the way I choose to apply it, but I often think of these words when I meet some goal.  There's that immediate slightly euphoric feeling (dopamine influx or God's love for not being a total fuck-up or whatever), but then I just feel exhausted.  It's very much a "now what?" feeling.  I put so much energy into this thing that is now done (often successfully enough), and now what? It's over. Pat on the back. You're gonna go far, kid. Next?

I feel hollow afterwards, so yes, next (next task, next project, next person, next whatever).  No, this isn't a metaphor for sex.  Although this does make me think of an unnecessary analogy of post-partum depression.  Women (and other people with sensibilities) everywhere please pardon this comparison (yes, I know my work is not comparable in scope to childbirth) - but in some ways it does feel like spending all this time with an idea/person/organization/community kind of fills you up, it gives you purpose, you're eating and living for two (or three, or five thousand) and you go through the exciting and excruciating labor to see the product of your loving efforts.  The baby comes out, you feel amazing at first, but then you realize it's not like it used to be.  You knew the baby had to come out, and that was the whole point of conceiving (the baby, idea, project, relationship, etc) in the first place, but now your uterus is empty and that doesn't feel right anymore. (Now I really need to stop with this analogy lest I reveal my ignorance of female anatomy. Hell, I don't even know that much about male anatomy, aside from what I've seen in the mirror).

SO YES.  NEXT.  I pick up the next project. I get embarazado-ed with another pregunta.  Then after a bit one metaphorical fetus isn't enough, I take on more tasks.  All of a sudden I'm responsible for this, and that, and him, and her, and them, and it, and the surrounding world.  Because how can my idea-babies prosper in a shitty world?  And I try to be the change I want to see in the world (though I'm not a sure what kind of positive change a world of angsty emo bloggers with narcissistic tendencies will bring).

As my freshman year RA noted upon finishing her problem set: "I think I understand why people become math major.  It's like a high each time you finish a problem.  And then you're just done, and you can move on to the next"  (I'm paraphrasing of course).

What of it? I think that may be what I do - what many of us do.  We solve problems, and then we find more problems to solve.  And more. And then some more after that. And if we can't find them, we're creative enough to make up our own.

And it works and it doesn't.  It keeps me busy, and often it keeps me feeling like I'm doing something I'm supposed to be doing.  As Quinn Norton mentioned in her "Eulogy for #Occupy", we just desperately want something to matter, so when I'm in the midst of something it feels like it really matters. I stop sleeping, eating, brushing my hair, because that task is the most important one right now. At that moment it matters. And then, of course, comes the end.  It's almost not important whether the goal was achieved or not. It's over.  And what was defining my life at the moment is in the past and I need to have a new goal.  And sometimes I can do that, and other times, as per Talkov's poem, I completely exhaust my mental, emotional, spiritual, give-any-kind-of-fuck reserves. That's when I write something like this, I suppose (by the way, this was not at all what I was planning to write when I opened up the computer an hour ago at 6am when I couldn't sleep).  Before writing this I tried to do a lovingkindness meditation, to wish peace and happiness to myself, my loved ones, my not-so-loved ones, and to the world at large.  I couldn't.  The meditation starts with imagining something that evokes unconditional feelings of kindness and nothing I could think of stirred that in me.  I was tapped out.  I felt like a horrible person about it, but that didn't help.  And it's not about a lack of love. I love most of my friends and family more than anything (certainly more than myself), but at the moment I don't feel that I have any kindness left in me.  Sometimes I wonder how renewable of a resource it is, because it seems every year I get more and more jaded (often a consequence of getting more and more screwed), and I think one of these days my kindness might never be replenished.  And in some way that sounds sad, but I also see the "about fucking time! why did it take so long to learn the lesson that the world is a terrible place and it's time to give up and die?" aspect of it.

Which reminds me what I was going to write about... love. I saw a sappy thing about a rockstar teacher who not only has a great relationship with his students but also has a developmentally disabled son and it's so beautiful that he loves him so much.  I don't want to be a cynical jerk about this teacher, he does seem like a great guy. But the way it was written and the comments did make me cynical because it was just another superficial tear-jerker piece (but at least it wasn't as offensive as daytime TV - see "Kathie Lee Gifford Makes Autistic Kid Cry on TV" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1MwuJy07lQY ).  Which brings me to my question - is there such a thing as love? (And if so, why has no one ever loved me?)

The way everyone talks about love, it seems very self-centered almost to the point of excluding the love interest.  Love has often been described as an addiction (obsessive thoughts, similar brain activation in people who are infatuated with someone and people who are "in love" with cocaine). The people who love me most, I presume, are my parents.  But who I am is beside the point to them.  They love me as their offspring.  They love what I remind them of.  They love that I have some of their features.  They love that I've done things they've failed to do themselves.  They love that they can feel prideful in respect to me. So do they love me? When I hear people talking about romantic love, and the one or two times I may (or may not?) have been in one, it's almost literally insane. It's not about compassion and understanding and connection and authenticity and support and whatever. It's about control, it's obsessive, it's highly emotional, it's often unstable, it's like a poorly maintained roller-coaster loaded with alcohol, tobacco and firearms (and maybe drugs, sex and rock'n'roll... y tu mama tambien).

In other words, it's actually not such a respectable thing.  I don't entirely disagree that love makes the world go round, but I'm not convinced that's any better than lust, pride, greed or whatever the other deadly sins may be appropriate.

...And the cat with attachment issues continues to beg for attention and then run away from it (his claws and teeth say no, but his eyes say "love me, need me, attend to me at all times")