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Life in Exile

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Feelings of loneliness and fears of isolation sit at the core of being human. These are feelings I and most people are reluctant to embrace at times, feelings that are a necessary part of becoming a complete individual, comfortable with how one lives and with what he or she believes. I think it is the prospect of such loneliness and how one is willing to face it that decides how original and genuine a person’s life can be, and of what lasting importance a person’s accomplishments will have. Anything of any lasting significance has always had to arise against the backdrop of resistance, reluctance, and difference with the consequence that those willing to affect change have been faced with prospects of dire isolation, not only on account of their ideas and beliefs, but on account of the very lifestyle that is inextricably linked to the ideas and beliefs they breed. Yet what is more difficult is that such isolation can cause one to feel isolated from one’s self, isolated from the kind of person one knows themselves to be.

Clichés become clichés for a reason. That nothing is won without sacrifice, despite its common use, is a cliché that has poignant truth to it. Many great writers, artists, musicians, and mystics have suffered bouts of sadness and isolation because the ideas and beliefs they had were so different that they became isolated from many of those around them. Some of these such as Camus, Nietzsche, and Hemingway, were able to give the world something great at the cost of losing themselves. Others such as Bertrand Russell, St. Teresa of Avila, and Ludwig Wittgenstein barely got out alive. Still others such as Carl Jung, the Buddha, or Eckhart Tolle, managed to not only overcome feelings of isolation, but to return and flourish, continuing to give the world something great, and to tell everyone that there are necessary feelings which must be felt and embraced if they are to become something more lasting.

In “The Thin Red Line,” Sean Penn’s character is asked if he ever gets lonely. His reply is, ‘Only around people.’ There is a tinge of pessimism in his response, but there is also a poignant truth. After all, many a sage and mystic have said that the wise person is one who finds the best company to be one’s self. This does not exclude all kinds of social life, but it does exclude one based on co-dependence instead of actual friendship. Such co-dependence relationships are ones where it seems everyone engages in activities they no longer enjoy or find valuable. Yet they continue to engage in them because the alternative would mean isolation. It is as if certain groups act as self-denial support groups where everyone comes to reinforce the illusion that what they are doing is the only outlet, the only answer, and the only way to be happy.

For me it has been frustrating at times knowing that so many people are still content to be occupied with getting drunk, staying out late and sleeping in, eating bad food, or fooling around with people whom they know and care little about. More than frustrating, it is lonely, but it is a loneliness of a different kind, a loneliness that can have the affect of isolating myself not just from other people but from the very person I am; I start to feel estranged from the kind of person I know myself to be.

There are times when I doubt myself. For me these doubts are feelings that I am somehow weird and fucked up for not wanting to engage in or not deriving the same kind of enjoyment from the activities of everyone else; times where I feel I must be strange for wanting to stay in on a Friday night to read a good book around a nice candle, drink some good tea, and go to bed early to seize the next day. There are times when I feel I’m the stranger; times when I convince myself that I must be depressed and pessimistic because I’m unhappy with what’s wanted or expected of me by friends, family, and mass culture.

Faced with such feelings the fight becomes a struggle to remain true to what I know deep down: that my passion and appreciation for all aspects of life is unmatched; that my drive to feel things deeply, openly, and full-heartedly has allowed me to experience the world in a way that most people never or rarely will; and that my desire for truth and lasting peace are the only pursuits I know to be of real value.

I’m quite certain that some people see me not smiling and use it as an excuse to assume that the kind of life I’m living is a sad and pessimistic one. Such people are intent on making such an assumption that they refuse to see how often I can and do smile. There are no illusions; I am not always happy. But those that are afraid to acknowledge loneliness and other feelings are unable to see them as temporary states to something higher. Moreover, it is a sensation, and all sensations are there as guides, they draw one’s attention to things that the body both mentally, physically, and emotionally needs to deal with. Many people, however, think the acknowledgment of unhappiness, dissatisfaction, or loneliness means an existence where such states become permanent characteristics of one’s existence; probably because they struggle to see a bright light at the end of the tunnel.

People sometimes say to me, “I wish I could motivate myself like you. I wish I had your discipline. I wish I had your drive to experience things.” When I ask them why they don’t they usually say they are lazy. But I don’t think laziness is the problem. I think it is feelings of loneliness that have to be overcome, feelings of isolation born of standing outside the crowd, feelings that all great accomplishments have had to arise from. I have known other people who are more open about the possibility of feeling alone and blatantly state that living a different life and making changes would come with price of being lonely, and that such loneliness is not something they are prepared to face. Such people are waiting for others to be the catalyst for change.

A while back I was at a social gathering where I observed two friends engage in what appeared to be a serious conversation over relatively personal matters; their glossy eyes were intent to listen, and the expressions on their faces were devoid of anything that could be said to resemble a smile. As they were talking, a friend came by to take pictures. Once the two people realized they were about to be photographed they turned to the camera with huge smiles. This change from one look to the other was so extreme that I felt I went temporarily mad; it was a kind of lightning flash. After the picture they went back to talking to each other with the same previous barren expressions. It seemed there was such a strong attempt to deny any possibility that they were anything but happy and content; an attempt born of a fear that one might be caught with hard proof in the form of a photograph that one’s life is anything but “picture perfect.”

The incident was extremely profound. I was bewildered by the attempt to hide what was being felt under the guise of a smile that can only be called fake. It is a metaphor for how people can be reluctant to face certain emotions, to hide them from one’s self out of fear and misunderstanding of what emotions are or can be. Feelings of isolation and loneliness are emotions that people run from the most, but they have to be faced at some point. Otherwise who we are will never be able to fully blossom, while those one loves will never be more than tools that one uses to escape feelings of loneliness, a task that in the end cannot fall to anyone other than one’s self.

What Poetry Means to Me

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It has been over ten years since I composed my first poem. The original composition, now lying somewhere on my closet floor, along with just about everything I have ever written; original drafts, stories, and philosophy. I can’t recall any of the lines, I don’t know how long it was, if I were to walk into my closet and determinedly attempt to find it, my eyes would not recognize the words. But I do remember writing it, and most importantly, I remember what it was about; love, a concept and feeling that recently had new meaning for a young naïve sophomore in high school who was trying to get over his first girlfriend, his first love. I remember the feeling of helplessness in trying to convey to myself, and understand everything I was experiencing and feeling; how to make sense of an experience that was so unfamiliar, brutal, and powerful.

And just as in any art, it was feeling that drove me to express, and moved me to create. This was art as a kind of frustration that arises in trying to understand the world; It is imagination for the heart. A way to be free; free from one’s self, where one can express what they do not think people will understand (though we want them to try), where one can be genuine about something that they cannot bear to admit; a way to relieve one’s self of the pressures that have built up inside  because of the fears one has about who one really is; a way to make sense of life. It is poetry that attempts such things and succeeds as well as any art form. These are the feelings I remember when I recall myself frantically writing down the lines as they shot out of me; trying to compose them with some sense of order; trying to give them life.

Poetry, more than any other art form, is abstract by the very nature of its composition. Other forms of writing, such as literature or philosophy, begin with having something to teach. It was Ayn Rand who said in her guide to writing fiction that one must work out the theme, moral, conflict, and resolution before one can write the story. This is a testament to literature as an attempt to convey a message, to expound on “reality,” but it also serves to highlight a distinction between such forms of writing and poetry itself, for poetry has little to teach because there is little the writer knows. The poet has a swelling of feeling, an experience of great emotional magnitude. Poets then stand in awe of such feeling, exploring the deepest levels of sensation, while probing the depths of a new kind of world that has opened up to them. These are feelings that don’t make sense, that destroy logic, and leave one speechless. Yet one feel’s they must do something; one must act, and through one’s resolve, one reconciles themselves to an activity that becomes the very definition of abstraction.

In carrying this task out, poets treat language in ways that greatly differ from other styles of writing. Language for poets has little to do with using words as markers or symbols for actual things. Obviously, a poet will use words like, ‘sun’ or ‘sky,’ but in mentioning and describing such things words are used, not as representatives, but as doors; words are used by poets to convey, not a world of things, but to dismantle ‘thing-hood.’ Words are used to critique language, not to diminish the power of it, but to show that language is powerful precisely because it is without form. That is, poetry critiques language in order to undermine language, not to demonstrate it as a triviality, but to show that language is powerful precisely because it can be undermined.

Words hold a power that goes over and above their ability to be useful as designators or categorizers. Words carry the emotions that people invest them with. When a poet creates a piece, he or she relies on elements of sound, syllable, and timing in ways that bring out the “hidden” or disguised elements of feeling. Because poetry makes use of elements apart from language as a marker it tears down the wall of impressions built upon bare observation. The consequence is that basic perception gives way to pure imaginings, where the later holds the power, or in fact, asks of the reader to reflect on the world in a way that removes any barrier between it and the person who is reading.

In everyday life, language is often used to disguise thought or feeling. It is odd to talk of language as having the capacity to fundamentalize and imprison human thought, while at the same time, holding the power to open one up to a world of experience-possibility. None the less, it is true. It can become all too typical for one to use words such as ‘love’ ‘freedom’ ‘justice’ ‘good’ and ‘evil.’ Words such as these can become so common, not because people understand them, but because they have left them perplexed. Such words, however, only represent shortcuts at times; cheat sheets into a comfortable world where trains of thought come to a halt. They represent the contentment of perpetual procrastination; they represent things one thinks they understand but fails to explain; the failure to expound upon something and how it affects a given person. So one says ‘love,’ ‘freedom,’ ‘equality,’ etc. and feigns comprehension. It is poetry that reacts against such procrastination through its deep application of language. It is never content with leaving words transfixed. Thus the ability of language to express and expand upon the wonders associated with existence is preserved.

It was the feeling of tapping into a new kind of existence that I surrendered to when I first fell in love; that in-turn became the catalyst for writing my first poem. It was feeling that I wanted to understand; that had left me mystified, and it is what continually inspires me to write poetry.

Eight Years Later

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It has been eight years since I left for Marine Corps boot camp. Although I am proud of those I served with and thankful for the lasting friends I made, I am ashamed to have participated in the Iraq war. For me the conflict has become nothing but a blatant example of political aggression and imperialism. It accomplished nothing and achieved nothing. There was no political right to wage it and no moral superiority to justify it.

As for my motivations, they were largely absent of political beliefs. Instead, from an early age I wanted to go to war. As a phenomenon, war is something that still attracts me. War is a primordial demonstration of lived experience, life in the moment, as both crisis and wonder. It is lived irony.

But the most gratifying irony, is knowing, that, despite being sent to Iraq as a representative of a government that assumed it had a culture and democracy worth spreading, Arab and Muslim culture ended up influencing me more than I influenced it. I find consolation in knowing I was humbled by a culture distinct from my own, and grateful to have walked along the banks of the Euphrates river, in the land often referred to as the Cradle of Civilization.

Why Study? Beyond the Grading Principle

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A couple months ago, me and a friend were discussing our grades for the semester. After revealing my grades they responded, “You’re smart.” I then tried to explain why I did not think grades mattered, and how hopefully, if I am smart, it has little to do with grades.

To most people, such a belief is perplexing. Grades are meant to be a mark of intellectual achievement, a sign of intelligence. This is true to an extent. The problem I have, however, is that such an estimation reduces the value of a fact from a personal and adaptable piece of information to a lifeless bit of material that is only seen as important in so much as it externally designates intellectual success.

Grades divorce the fact from an applicability that is relevant to how a person confronts and navigates the conflicts and questions of life. The result is that learning, and the search and attainment of knowledge, is made into a lifeless enterprise. That is, once a person attains the grade, there is no motivation to retain the fact or to see it as having a lasting and flexible quality that can be applied to life. Learning becomes lifeless. Wisdom is divorced from knowledge.

There are scores of people who have achieved academic success, but who cannot engage intimately with what they learned. Conversations with such people are very bland. But of course, such people usually point to their grades to console themselves. Worse is that these same people often fail to have opinions of their own, and are intellectually handicapped in the face of subjective discussions. What happened is that such people took the grade and substituted it in for the fact that it represents. The concern is then for the grade and what society says of people who have good marks. There is no longer a concern or motivation to retain the fact once the grade can stand in for it.

The attraction to holding onto the grade at the expense of the fact itself limits the utility of knowledge and keeps learning from being seen as an evolving and dynamic process. Not only that, the search for knowledge and wisdom is kept from being a way by which an individual connects with the wider world in a deep and meaningful way. The reduction of knowledge to a grade is thus another example of the common human desire to objectify concepts and dynamic processes into actual things. Like all things objectified by the individual, they are meant to correspond to the individuals perception of itself as a fixed thing.

Of course, it is not just the idea of a grade that is at fault. The idea of a fact is also one that is quite stultifying, for without an attitude that understands knowledge to be more than a simple piece of information from long ago, facts appear lifeless and irrelevant to present circumstances. Why should one know the battle of Actium was fought in 31 BCE or that Alexander the Great was Macedonian?

Thus I want to express what learning means to me, and what motivates me to study. My hope is that this will give some sort of an idea into why, once a semester of school ends, I’m still reading and writing papers, and why on some Friday nights I prefer to stay home with a new book and reflect on my thoughts. Lastly, I should point out that this search goes beyond what is commonly referred to as the distinction between “book smarts” and “street smarts.” There is a degree of truth to “street smarts” embracing actual “hands on” experience in a way that academically minded individuals do not, but the same shortsightedness that prevents certain people from moving beyond the grade, prevents those preoccupied with “street smarts” from seeing the dynamic utility of factual application and appropriation.

Learning for me is like interacting with a living breathing entity. There is nothing dead about history or information in general. To see things otherwise is a failure of the imagination and an inability to take seriously what it means to actually live; to be born from a process of causes and effects, and to participate in those causes and effects without limits. One thinks history is dead because one interprets an event as static while also reducing the great figures of history to individuals of an equally static and far away time. Yet both events and the people who participated in them are linked by themes that constantly resound through the ages no matter the time and place. Caesar is gone, along with his Roman Empire, but empires still exist. The men whose desire for power creates them still exist. War still exists. Tough decisions; both communal and existential still exist. The concept of a belief, which governs the making of those decisions, still exists. Internal conflict regarding how to act, who to love, and when to fight, still exist.

It is because such things exist that history is very much alive. Thus one can read Thucydides and perceive a cultural and temporal gap between our time and the Peloponnesian War, but if one engages the text with the right mindset, one realizes that there is no, or very little gap between Pericles decision to go to war with Sparta and decisions that we have to make on a daily basis. That is, we read of a person who had to make a decision; a decision based on beliefs. We then realize that this is something we all do everyday. Thus when we read history we get an understanding for realities of the time and see them recurring in our own. We engage with history to sympathize with other individuals who have had to experience the conflicts of life, and we learn from them. They let us know that as individuals our struggles are not as unique as we imagine. They recur as facets of what it means to be human.

Most people have never been or will never be in a position where they must make a decision that affects a whole country, but everyone knows what it is like to make tough decisions, and to be in conflict with what one may want against what a particular situation affords.

In a similar way as to how history is not dead, literature is not fictitious. The stories themselves are largely made up, but the actual dilemmas and experiences of the characters are ones that individuals understand every day. Moreover, the authors that compose literary works draw from the same emotions, and experiences that face people everyday. That is why literature has such an incredible power to move us. There is no reason history can’t be experienced in the same way.

Thus there is more to be discovered, experienced, and appreciated if one can break through the habit of seeing things simply. Nothing is simple. By this I mean no thing is isolated from the rest of the world. The father of a friend once quipped to me when I was young that, “simple minds are impressed by simple things.” This was in reference to a rock I was looking at. The truth, however, is that only a simple mind finds things to be simple. That rock was not just a rock. If one looks at it closely with a particular probing eye, one sees the thousands of pieces of sediment composed of it. One appreciates how solid it is and the hundreds of years taken to make it so solid. One might see a fossil remnant in it and begin reflecting on what it means to leave an imprint in the world.

Thus one constantly moves from an engagement with an object to that object’s relevance and reflection in one’s own life. A rock was a product of patience. It is engaged in time. It was constructed like all things, and like all things, it will pass. There is no reason that the line that designates animate and inanimate things has to be strict or exist at all. Nor does the line between such things as plants. One can look at a tree, and be inspired by how firm it stands in the middle of a storm. Surely such an appreciation is relevant to an individual’s life where he or she needs strength to be true to one’s beliefs, even in the midst of a storm of contrary opinions?

What this drives at is the realization that every piece of knowledge represents a gateway into a larger world, a world of interconnectivity. This interconnectivity has the power to bring the past to us, and to make it an active, and living presence in one’s life. It has the power to blur the line between living and non-living things. Looking at things deeply allows one to realize that life is constant exchange and relationship.

Thus studying for me is an engagement with the world that molds the past and future into the present moment where living and non-living things find their relevance in a dynamic and constantly changing process that represents, at its core, the very universe itself. Such an appreciation can never be designated by a grade.

Zen and Travel

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I feel compelled to write about my motivations for travel, and where a camera fits in with those motivations. The question of the cameras importance in having a lasting and memorable experience has come up a number of times through friends and family who are often perplexed by my lack of desire to bring a camera on my trips; assuming it is then impossible to document or capture the experience.

This does not mean that I find a camera to be useless or that a person should never use a camera at all while travelling. On the contrary, I completely believe in the medium of photography as a way to get us to see the world differently. I also have faith in its ability to “capture” certain moments from a particular sense. This faith in photography just comes with reservations.

The first time I took a camera traveling was on a trip to Yosemite National park in California. On the hiking trails I remember a feeling of tension; being unable to decide when to stop, where to stop, did I miss a moment? Will I remember this? I took my time and took some lovely pictures, but I walked away with a feeling of failure in not capturing what I had seen. More specifically, I remember looking at the pictures later on and thinking, “These don’t do it justice.”

The next time I took a camera was to Iraq on both deployments. In Iraq there was an even stronger desire to try and capture what I was experiencing. Unlike Yosemite, however, there wasn’t only scenery I wanted to take pictures of, but feelings as well. Through brief moments of optimism I tried to capture what I was going through, but with little success. Walking away from deployment, I had left with many pictures, but I also left with intense emotions, realizations, and experiences. I can remember looking at the pictures later on and feeling frustrated that so many pictures could capture so little.

After my four years in the Marine Corps I went to Egypt for vacation. Here was another chance to “capture the moment.” Accompanying me on the trip was my good friend from the Marine Corps who had recently begun rediscovering his love for photography. It was interesting to watch him work. For me it became real demonstrative of how a person could enter into a dialogue with a place; almost if to become the very thing you were trying to capture. This was different than from what I had done in the past, and from what most other tourists were doing around us: that is, seeing something and trying to capture it as fast as they experienced it even though the feeling that spurred them to capture the moment had already passed. Thus the moment they were trying to catch became a kind of phantasm.

Egypt became a trip of a lifetime, not only because of what I saw, heard, and tasted, but because, much like Iraq, I had felt things at particular moments that transcended almost anything one could call tangible. Whether it was seeing the Pyramids come out from behind the buildings of Cairo, walking into a Muslim wedding, or the feeling of looking off into the Blue Hole while snorkeling off the coast. Again I had taken pictures. I was more patient. I scoped out particular angles, looked for kinds of lighting, considered depth etc. It wasn’t that this method wasn’t successful; the pictures I took gave me satisfaction, and along with my friend’s pictures, gave me a new sense for what a camera could do. It was just that when I reflected, I found that the most powerful experiences had been brief moments into another world; gone before I could acknowledge them, and intense beyond comprehension.  From then on I wanted to travel for those moments; to live for those moments. Needless to say I would still bring a camera on my next trip.

This came two tears later when I went to Turkey with another good friend. I brought a camera, but this time with the intention of using it almost meditatively. I also felt that from past experiences traveling in Egypt, I could get closer to those brief moments into another world.

I made sure to take my time with what I looked at. I would observe animals and insects and try to capture something profound about them. I would place flowers in the perfect corner relevant to a sunset, fog, or the ocean. I took many pictures; pictures with essence, pictures as paintings. Then irony struck:

On a random bus change in the middle of Turkey I dashed out of my seat to transfer to a different bus. An hour or so later I realized that my camera was gone: it had fallen out of my backpack and was now on a bus traveling through Turkey. I was devastated. I felt that I had poured my soul into the pictures I had taken. I tried to console myself with thoughts that my camera might be found by someone less fortunate. Or perhaps someone would find my camera, appreciate the photos, and even develop them so they could hang somewhere in their house. Perhaps I would stumble upon them on some auspicious day during a return trip through Turkey?

Then I realized something that I already knew: that it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter I no longer had anything tangible to document my trip because the most powerful experiences were imprinted somewhere else. The pictures I had taken were only small glimpses into a world of feeling that was more profound for me. These were the feelings of being overwhelmed by the history and culture of place; a feeling that one is, on many levels, more than what he or she sees, hears, and tastes. These were the feelings that echoed from moments in Iraq and Egypt; moments from life in general.

The Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh once told his students, “None of you have ever tasted a tangerine before.” After a number of the students countered that indeed they had, Hanh responded by saying, “No you have not because you were never fully present to the moment while you were eating them.” This can be viewed from the perspective of photography. How many pictures had I taken, and never really “seen” anything.” How many times had I neglected surrendering to the moment for the sake of trying to capture something else?

Now that I’ve put some years between my current situation and past travels I can reflect on the things I’ve done and confidently remind myself that the most memorable experiences I’ve had are permanently etched somewhere within. Those moments ran much deeper than anything sensory. They were moments I felt; moments that have given rise to the clichéd expressions, “You had to be there,” “Pictures don’t do it justice,” “It’s beyond words,” or “It was a life-changing moment.” These are the moments that leave us speechless, overwhelmed, changed.

Of course I could give more examples than the ones I described. I could mention the intensity of the heat when I first stepped off the plane into Kuwait. I could mention how it felt to walk off a mountain when I went paragliding over Oludeniz. But these are formalities. All a person needs to do is look back on their own lives and see what unhesitantly comes to mind; what still chokes you up or sends shivers down your spine?

For me there has been freedom in being able to let go in a place; a freedom that removes the distance and appearance of being separate from a place whether it is the sounds one is hearing, the sights one is seeing, or the people with whom one is engaging.

I remain reverent to what a camera can do, and I enjoy the creative possibilities that come with having one. I will probably bring a camera on my next trip. But as a way of capturing the whole moment, I’ll keep my reservations.