Tonight, I intended to go to the Greek Festival with my sister. But she spent the last two days getting into and out of a flash flood in the San Raphael, so (needless to say) she was extremely tired. Remembering that Billy Collins was reading tonight and deciding that poetry was a better solitary activity than eating baklava in a crowd, I headed over to the library.
Until tonight I had never, at least not in memory, read one of Billy Collins' poems. And if it didn't sound so meaningless, I would want to tell you that upon hearing his poems I laughed and cried. Some of his poems were so sardonic about poetry and poets that he reminded me of myself in grad school when we'd go to open mike night at Avogadro's Number and laugh at all of the hopeful poets who were dreaming about unicorns and butterflies. The evening ended with a hilarious recounting of all of the people he's fooled with his invented form, the paradelle (his storytelling was prompted by an audience member who had received some critique when he taught the form in a writing workshop and wanted to know whether or not it was a real form). And he wasn't only funny about poetry--most of what he said and read was playful and witty.
And there were moments and words that were so sad and lovely. I loved most his poem about listening to Johnny Hartman, where he speculates about beauty and foolishness and all the songs written about both. The last bit: We are all so foolish,/ my long bebop solo begins by saying,/ so damn foolish/ we have become beautiful without even knowing it.
I was delighted by the evening. Part of me was wishing that someone had come with me, perhaps so I could talk about what I liked most without having to explain the context, or so that I could have company while waiting to get a book signed, or just for sharing the pleasure of something unexpectedly lovely. But then I realized I didn't particularly care that I was alone. I didn't have to reduce the joy of it by talking lamely afterwards, "that was great" "yeah, he's really funny" or try to avoid the joy reduction by constructing the details of what I really wanted to say.
On the long trip back from London, I idly opened my window shade. I expected sky, clouds, some water. But I saw the Greenland ice cap--the mass of land, the icebergs floating up channels, the unavoidable reality that the ice is melting. I thought for a moment that I should nudge my friend awake, but I decided not to. I decided that I wanted this part of the trip to be just mine. I considered telling her about it later, but even the idea of it I wanted to keep for myself. I stared out the window until the sea opened up and the icebergs began to look like fishing boats.
Sometimes laughter and perfect views are better without anyone to share them.
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I think I've come to accept loneness as a proper manner of existence. I guess see people who so pine for the company of others that they will do anything (insert your various pathetic human failing here) as sad. I've certainly been in the "alone" situation and it does indeed bug me. I hate, for example, going to movies alone. For that matter you could expand it out to any event such as the poetry reading you describe. It is uncomfortable to be alone--to be without support in such social situations. But I usually ignore that and just let it go and know where I am. Of course the discomfort is still there. And it is nasty. There is something that makes one apt to be shy--to be fearful, somehow. Loneness when properly applied, however, makes one bold. It says "I am me! Take it or leave it!" But is that bravery misplaced? Of course it is. Aren't we all just scared little lambs, trembling?
I actually prefer going to the movies alone, if it's a movie I think I'm going to care about. Is that wrong? Aren't movies supposed to be social?
This may also sound demented, but I've never traveled at length with anyone else. It sounds kind of fun. After a few days of compromising, though, I imagine I'd have to take a side trip by myself to regain sanity.
I think traveling alone in India made me way more approachable to the locals (a good thing and bad thing, all in one).
As one whose life is full of intimate others, obviously I can attest to the joys of sharing things, especially if there's someone with whom the sharing becomes part of the intimacy. But I do agree with you, Ms. Unhip, that aloneness is way underrated. In some ways, it's the only way you actually fully experience the thing itself, at least as fully as you can. With another person, even an intimate other, the experience is more emphatically triangulated. I liked the way you said it, Clint, aloneness is the "proper manner of existence."
I love doing things with others, and the surprises that result. I remember being in a car on a winter afternoon with my oldest son, and having him say in a dreamy voice (he was maybe twelve?), "I wish I could draw those clouds." They were beautiful, and knowing that he thought so too made them more so. But I also love long stretches of aloneness, experiencing certain things by myself. I love movies alone. And together. If it's a movie I love, I'll see it twice, once together, once alone.
I recall spending whole afternoons, whole weekends, alone in the coffee shops in Bellingham. There's something about being alone in a crowd that I found (still find) especially pleasing. I had my coffee and my pretentious poetry. Around 4pm I'd swing on over (with poetry in hand) to the pub for a couple of pints and then on home.
I was thinking about being alone this past weekend. Since taking up Mountain biking this summer I've been hoping to find someone to ride with. Kind of strange since I've done a ton of running on my own but Mt biking seems to require company. I had a biking date all setup this weekend (I even waited till the evening so my friend could go) but then he bailed on me last minute. I was bummed, kind of felt like a rejected teenager especially since I've unsuccessfully been trying to get someone to mt bike with me for about two months: I announced my need in my church group and I even accosted a mt biker on the trail and then called him up later (he never returned my calls).
I did, as Lisa said, more fully experience the thing but it also put more pressure on the ride being successful. More pressure because I now decided to see if I could beat my time, more pressure because if I hadn't felt real energetic it wouldn't have been fun. Having people around can certainly distract from the thing itself but they also take the edge off.
I find it interesting that you, Unhip, witheld your experience of the Greenland ice cap but now have ironically decided to share the solitary moment with all of us. Ultimately you couldn't quite keep the experience to yourself.
I look back on my time living alone in a studio apartment in Bellingham as the Golden Years. Of course, they are only the Golden Years because I so rarely have any time alone now. Later, when Ross moves out of the house, I will look back on this time as the Golden Years. Sigh.
But I wanted to say that I too, had a Greenland moment when I was travelling alone, but the guy next to me (total stranger) started talking to me about Greenland. I used Greenland as a metaphor in a story once, but I think now that it was probably stupid.
I love to watch movies alone, but hate to dine alone. Mostly because I want to talk about the food, how great it looks and how good it tastes.
During and after grad school, I got used to attending the theatre alone. Sometimes it was exquisite--no mandatory conversation to remind me that I was in a theatre watching something made-up, no need to immediately deconstruct the play afterward--and I loved eavesdropping before the show started and during intermission. On the other hand, one of my best dates ever was with a would-be rock musician; we went to the Colorado Symphony and sat in the front row and stared at the musicians closest to us. We then spent the drive home imagining and inventing a background and personal history of all of them. Because we had watched them for over an hour, we had had time to develop intricate stories for each of them, and it was a fun and fascinating conversation that I never could have had otherwise.
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