As I write this I'm listening to the Radiohead song Creep. It is an archetypal (I wish archetypical was a word) song about the loser in the shadows admiring someone out in the light. That person appears angelic, perfect and inapproachable. The sentiment is probably universally understood by all but those with ironclad self images. Unalloyed admiration is rarely a feeling a person feels for an equal. We tend to admire people prettier than ourselves, smarter than ourselves, wittier than ourselves, better than ourselves. Or at least people that give the appearance of being so.
"You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
I wish I was special
You're so fuckin' special"
Many of the profiles you see on this site and others present an idealized almost mythologized version of the people they represent. If the text portions of these profiles were turned into images they would portray the subject in the foreground with lighting from above as if the rays of God's divine light were shining upon them so brightly that their halos would barely be visible. One would think that such self aggrandizement would cause resentment but the best examples are effortless and artless and instead invoke gratitude. They make you want to bathe in that holy aura even while being afraid that it might burn. Resentment is caused by overt and clumsy manipulation. If you are going to attempt to control me do the the courtesy of not allowing me to feel it when you tie the strings around my limbs. It is the difference between being seduced and being sneered at.
"But I'm a creep,
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here"
The comparison between one's self and the author of the either type of profile evokes a feeling of inferiority. One type is designed to weed out the losers while the other has as its purpose providing a meaningful narrative about the author. Unfortunately neither type is capable of truthfulness. Despite the best of intentions language is ambiguous and no two people would define most words in precisely the same way. The vainglorious can't help but overplay their hands while the glorious deceive unwittingly.
Nearly every aspect of a profile can be false. Pictures lie. Words Lie. The truth is that you do not know where you stand with someone until you literally stand next to them. The proof is in the pudding. Smell their scent, meet their eyes, watch them sip their coffee and even then you don't know them. How do they treat the wait staff or beggars? Do they grovel in front of "social superiors" or their bosses? Do they chase down people who cut them off on the freeway? Do they have an oily laugh or cruel eyes?
"I don't care if it hurts,
I wanna have control
I want a perfect body
I want a perfect soul"
All healthy people, people who are not significantly mentally ill, realize that improving oneself is important. But life circumstances play a deciding roll in the expression of talent. A persons body and mind and achievements are hugely determined by chance. This doesn't simply mean that a rich person was born rich or a poor person was born poor. A person could be born with the type of personality that would do best if put into challenging circumstances. Put this person in the ghetto and they will end up running the world. Take that same person and make them a Kennedy at birth and they could end up driving a dirty black van that children disappear into on their walks home from school. A Bush an coast to the top office in the country with the right luck. C students can run the world.
Besides anyone you meet could be on their way up, or on their way down. As any broker will tell you: "Past performance is no guarantee of future results." A person's current accomplishments do not tell you which way they are headed. All that really matters is that one treats perfection as the a person walking ahead of them that they will never catch, but that they must make the attempt every day of their lives. Even though it hurts to constantly be made aware of your imperfections. We will all die with things left undone. Many of us are here because we don't wish to labor in absurdity alone. Of course a positive attitude is an asset, but the successful are not the only ones with positive attitude. There are plenty of joyful failures. They just aren't aware that we are putting that judgment on them.
"I want you to notice
when I'm not around
You're so fuckin' special
I wish I was special"
Try to come up with an original idea. See how well that works out for you. Ideas evolve out of a milieu. Anaximander a Pre-Socratic, developed a theory of evolution that was amazingly accurate for someone who came 2200 years before the voyage of the Beagle. Another Greek, Democritus, explored atomic theory. There is evidence that Archimedes was working on a primitive form of calculus and in the end Newton and Leibniz developed it simultaneously. Do you really think that the logo idea you just came up with or your latest screenplay is original or innovative. Oh please. Things are useful to you or they are not. They are beautiful to you or they are not. The originality of said things really shouldn't matter.
Things will only get worse from here. Think that most ideas throughout history went unrecorded and thus were forgotten. It is easy to to be deceived about new ideas when almost every premodern thought simply evaporated. Those days are quickly fading. More and more information is being recorded and analysed every day. Our ability to store our ideas is nearly complete. Say it, it can be recorded, write it, it can be sent out into the cloud. Think it? Think it and you control an artificial limb; one more step towards listening to the brain. Think it and a fMRI can now begin to begin to wheedle out what is happening up there in your nut. In the near future, think it and it will be known.
So hold onto the illusion of originality. Clutch closely to your breast the false icon of novelty, because soon it will slip away. But don't feel bad. We all want to be special.
Creativity is real.
"But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here, ohhhh, ohhhh
She's running out again
She's running out
She run run run run...
run... run..."
Who is she, the woman in the profile? Someone I haven't met. I'm just watching from the shadow. The shadow isn't serial killer or stalker shade, it is that which is not luminous. I'm not being self deprecatory. Who is more demeaned? The audience, or the dancer? I'm getting what I need and that is virtually meeting someone. She isn't the only one, I'm developing a string of small but poignant crushes. Each time I find another angel I fall in love again. Their words could all be false. The pictures could be lies, but the feelings they create within me are real. There is a place for beautiful untruths. How much more fulfilling to fall in love (just a little) with a profile than it is to be disappointed in actual people. Or to disappoint them in turn. Indulging in fantasy romance isn't my purpose, but since many of messages have to be sent off into the void like the Voyager spacecraft I will construct reality so that I can enjoy myself regardless of the out come.
I respond to pretty lies with truth of my own. Verities that they may not believe. Truth that they may see differently if faced with the reality of me and thus transform into lies; the dark alchemy of textual analysis; Gold into lead. It is all perspective. Gold, lead, flesh the elements that constitute them are all the ashes of dead stars anyway.
I read a profile and look at the pictures. I look for a narrative that moves me. I'm not responding to the profile because I think that we will make a good match. I'm responding because the profile made me do it. Each profile is like a nude model. I appreciate it and what it evokes in me and then I try to make something from myself and those feelings, and then I put it in a bottle. Some I should just print out, and then burn them. But when you don't get a response, the fact that you have been rejected becomes part of the narrative. The story ends with her turning and walking away. There is beauty in that. Instead of Paris, we will always have teh internetz. Of all the consciousnesses in all the world, you had to walk into mine.
"Whatever makes you happy
Whatever you want
You're so fuckin' special
I wish I was special"
In the end, it can be a beautiful experience. I imagine that even if the recipient doesn't enjoy the message, they can at least appreciate the sentiment. It is even possible that they enjoy the message and appreciated the sentiment but not what my words reveal about me. The truth didn't appeal, or the illusion wasn't beguiling enough. It is possible that we were a perfect match, but my words or their interpretation betrayed us. The point is to enjoy the dance and if you are dancing alone, close your eyes and indulge yourself in the most beautiful world you can create. The darkness that appears when your eyes are closed is inviting. You can paint anything you want on that darkness.
"But I'm a creep,
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here
I don't belong here..."
I'm not one for wallowing. If you get that impression then you have missed my point. I want to enjoy the whole experience and because and because that experience includes rejection I have to face the negative and subvert it to my needs. The light is fine for angels and other celestial creatures but that doesn't mean it is pleasant or forgiving. Dating can be like going on interviews and sometimes it seems to devolve into interrogations, lots of bright light in your face. A profile is a resume. Interviews and resumes are two of my very least favorite things. So I have to reinterpret those experiences.
When I go to a bar it is because I want to have a drink, listen to music and hopefully flirt with a woman. Sometimes I go with friends but If I'm alone when the mood strikes me I will go alone. But being that lone guy on the prowl makes you a creep. I'm a weirdo because despite the fact that we are none of us original we are also all unusual. We are all weirdos. Some of us do a better job of conforming, but frequently I find that conforming isn't my thing. I escape into ideas, not away from them. I'm constantly lost in thought.
Everyone claims to be intelligent, and maybe they are, but there is a difference between intelligence and thoughtfulness. There is a difference between being sensitive and being considerate. Is an essay about oneself an action that reveals the person behind the words? Or is it all impenetrable abstract art, just another devious way to hide in plain sight?
So occasionally instead of going out, I sit languidly at my desk and browse through profiles until I find one that charms and me makes me want to fall in love. I read the pretty lies, and think and feel and respond. In responding, I fall in love with that which is inside me and was awoken by the other. Well, maybe love is too strong a word. Lets say I crush on the hologram her profile projects in the smoke of my fancies.