experiencing commodification

Oops. I wrote this a week ago but forgot to post it.

Warning: this post doesn’t hold the answer, or the question, about life, the universe and everything, and it definitely doesn’t draw any conclusions. See my other posts for those. This post is about ordinary, every day life. One of those most important things we forget to question sometimes. It’s also hopelessly long, confusing, and shouldn’t be read into too much, just like some ordinary days.

I went through all the usual motions—grabbed my water bottle, set my red bag within reach, wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and stretched out on the couch, laptop resting on crossed legs. I turned it on, smiled at the seven applications running, and had just double clicked to check my email when I remembered. I was at my uncle and aunt’s for the night; no wireless. For a full thirty-nine seconds I was paralyzed. I maximized and minimized my Spring Break To-Do List four times, stared at my eight open Microsoft word documents with glazed eyes, their titles rendered meaningless. How can I write those essays for that scholarship until I’m certain nobody’s awaiting my reply to an urgent email? How can I settle down to work on that resolution until I know whether or not I’ve heard back from about our latest philosophical problem?

I had tried to prepare myself for this. I refrained from sending any momentous emails in order that I wouldn’t expect any back. Three full days ago I had marked non-internet To-Do List items with ****; I had opened several internet explorer windows in advance so come netless time I could read their content offline. I had even selected classical guitar music on my Itunes to remind myself, come THE MOMENT, to relax and pretend I was in the woods. But when THE MOMENT came, nothing helped. It’s been four full minutes now, and I’m writing this blog entry as some twisted sort of therapy. I don’t think it’s working.

Why do we become so dependent on certain comforts that their absence or malfunction can cause us this much distress?

Earlier today I entered the Mall of America for the first time in years. It was culture shock, to say the least. At Dartmouth we joke about the Dartmouth Bubble; Park Rapids is pretty much the Dartmouth Bubble without the Dartmouth. In both places, I do a good job of ignoring the parts of society I detest—the consumerism, the objectification, the commodification. Sure they’re present, I just don’t have to look at their most obvious manifestations. Walking into the Mall, it occurred to me that I’ve never felt more like an alien. I watched people shuffle, bumble, and hustle, some looking like they were having genuinely good times; most looking like they (a) had forgotten how to smile, (b) wished they were somewhere else, (c) were considering breaking their leg so they could ride around in one of those nifty scooter things (although even those in scooters didn’t have much luck with the crowds). OK, maybe I was reading into them a little too harshly. I know plenty of people who really enjoy shopping—I’ll never figure them out, and I’m trying to be OK with that. But what about the rest of the population, those of us who don’t go every weekend, but don’t mind hitting up the drum shop, or the tool shop, or the mall, every few months?

To paraphrase a wise friend, (that's you, Eric) I wonder how often we do things because we like the idea of us liking to do them.

Our comforts and our habits. These are two phenomena that have been hashed and rehashed by many people more articulate than me. I don’t need to tell you that our culture values quantity over quality (four AIM conversations as opposed to one phone or lunch conversation, for example?). And I don’t need to tell you that we’re good at fooling ourselves into thinking we’re getting quality, when we’re not. (Sure, it’s nice to chat simultaneously with four different people about our latest philosophical/introspective/political/theological musings, and sure, maybe it’s better to at least get to talk to them a little while doing homework etc., whereas otherwise I wouldn’t get to talk to them at all. But maybe in an AIMless world I’d put more effort into making time to talk to them. And maybe that shared space would prove much more valuable in the long run than a few IM chats here and there).

What I do need to ask you, is what impact these comforts, habits, foolings, whatever you call them, have on our sense of community. Walking in the mall—even alongside a friend and inspiration—drew out of me a penetrating sense of loneliness I’ve ever felt. It wasn’t Big City Bustle Loneliness, or Different Culture Loneliness—I’m used to those, they’re even nice sometimes—it was a pervading melancholic loneliness that actually made me want to curl up in a ball and be alone some more. It made me want to start fires, by myself, just to watch them destroy everything in their path. It made me want to ride my mountain bike down the side of a mountain, by myself, just to see where I’d land. It made me want somebody to hold me, but not so that we could be together; rather, so that I could continue being alone and laugh in the face of attempted community.

Sometimes I think modern society will make me a Marxist yet. But even Marx limited the human experience to the material. I’m willing argue there’s more to us than that; I’m willing to hope that maybe a Beloved Community could (and is) help(ing) us discover a more full way to be human. What about our everyday, ordinary lives, is getting in the way of experiencing that Beloved Community? And why on earth don’t we do something about it?