The fundamental strangeness of
being born into a culture whose central and guiding principle - pursue your own personal greed in order to accumulate more green paper
survival coupons than your fellow humans - I reject. I not only reject it, I am
repelled by it and find it anathema to my essence and to the essence of most of
the people I know and love.
I have lived with this sensation of
profound estrangement for forty-eight years and have now – thanks to much reading
and dialogue and life experience – begun to receive some perspective on it and
to reflect upon it. I believe that being born into a culture whose founding tenet I reject forced a traumatic rupture or
disassociation in me. In my teens, I began to obsessively think morbid and
painful and ego-dystonic thoughts. (An ego-dystonic thought is one that
directly runs counter one’s actual self and values). This tendency has waxed
and waned over the decades, cresting a handful of times into near psychotic
breaks. I was diagnosed with OCD and have taken medication in order to control
it for 10 years.
What I am now coming to grasp is
that my obsessive-compulsive disorder, in many ways, has served as a form of
adaptation to the world I was born into. Certainly, I was born with an “atypical”
neurological profile and my DNA contains the potential for episodes of OCD.
However, I am also beginning to sense that the intensity, the frequency, the
duration and the very nature of my OCD episodes have been shaped by and has been a response to my
fundamental estrangement from the founding principles of this culture.
Ours is a culture that, above all,
has pursued the profane. Nature is to be feared, despised, and attacked. The person
guided by pursuits – such as art, poetry and working for peace - that fall
outside of the commodity-world is also to be feared, despised and attacked.
These facts strike me as fundamentally violent and have caused me, on occasion, to seek
refuge in self-destructive thought loops. But what if even those people who appear to cherish and profess to love this culture were also – on a much
more deeply unconscious level – repelled by it, unbeknownst to them?
Much has been said about the
pathetic and circus-like nature of the 2015 Republican debates. Perhaps what
has not been noted is how deeply strange and eerie and profoundly sad the
candidates appear. Whether it is the blustering bigotry of Donald Trump or the
calmly pronounced nonsense of Ben Carson or the bullying bleats of Chris
Christie, it all has the shimmering tinge of great desperation – not only desperation,
but despair. I believe that the despair huddling behind the bellows and burps
of the presidential candidates is founded upon their own inability to feel well
in a culture that goes against our biology as social beings interdependent upon
nature. When they speak, when TV commentators speak, when the titans of
business speak, when actors in commercials speak, all I can hear is people
trying with tremendous desperation to convince themselves that the insane
tenets of our culture are not insane: That the atmosphere is not warming, that
the ocean is not acidifying and that we humans are not splitting violently in
two on the inside, unable to reconcile our true selves as sacred and loving
beings with the cultural tenets we have been told to follow.
6 comments:
I have also had this sad realization most of my life. When not trying to defend myself from the encroachment of a dead 'culture,' I perceive a deep sadness in the proponents who embrace it. I believe it comes from the unnatural separation from the natural world, starting in the highly controlled childhood that is allowed. No matter how old you are - go climb trees!
Absolutely! It's nice to hear some of my impressions code in other people's experience. DH
"Misery made me a fiend!" Frankenstein's monster.
Lester Bangs wrote, "Andy Warhol is the prophet of our doom." I see we can also certainly put Mary Shelley on the list the prophets of a bleak trajectory that we must resist!
This speaks to me. You say it so extremely well, Dan...
Cheers, Patrick.
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