Fine lines
Who is your favorite stranger?
We all have one. That person with whom we always cross paths that do not necessarily require any contact. The car always in front of us on the way to work. The customer that just asks for the usual and nothing more. The hand on the other end of the cooler at the convenience store, inevitably behind the row of drink you're after.
I thought my pick was gone, but much to my relief I saw him again a few weeks back. He can normally be spotted in proximity of the University Mall. He is dressed for aerobic success: just-too-short shorts; wristbands; headband; sunglasses; cumbersome, credit card giveaway radio-headphones. He doesn't jog or run. He struts, hops, skips, spins, twirls. He keeps moving even at intersections, dancing in place until the way is clear. He smiles the whole time like money, power, fame and all the rest of history's prizes are but trivial pursuits.
He is my hero.
This afternoon outside the Target on Fletcher Ave. there was an older gentleman standing just to the left of the entrance. With his left hand he gripped a shopping cart filled with sundry unbagged items. Nothing about his apparel or general appearance struck me as too extraordinary. He half-shouted to passers-by. I first thought that he was awkwardly asking for help of some sort, only to be ignored by rudeness. As I got closer I noticed the half-shouting was mostly crazed. When his lost gaze settled on me I picked up footspeed.
Maybe it was the probably not conscious change I've noticed in myself since the blogging began in earnest - a willingness to put myself in situations I would normally avoid, as if I knew I had to present myself with writing material. Maybe it was what I understood to be his mistaking me for Wal-Mart. Whatever my subconscious had planned, I stopped and briefly gave the man an audience. But he kept talking as if I were no more than another in a mass of characters surrounding him. When I saw the Target security staff member walk outside, obviously looking for the disturbance a scared customer must have reported, I walked away from the man and went to my shopping.
After my purchase I drove along the front of the Target towards Bruce B Downs - the man and the cart were both gone). About halfway down the store there is a table and seating area on the sidewalk. Beside the table was a man in a wheelchair. His oily thicket of blonde hair, never in style eyeglasses and nearly all-white wardrobe gave off more of an air of instability than the shouter. He had papers on his lap in which he was clearly interested. It's quite possible that the man was patiently waiting for a ride or taxi. My instant conclusion was that this man was not in possession of all mental faculties.
How did these three people come to their apparent lack of self-consciousness? Or is it everything outside themselves that escapes them? Is it either of these things or anything at all that links these people for me, or is it just a preoccupation with the idea of a distorted sense of self?
Many would argue that a lack of self-awareness would be the greatest freedom one could acquire. But what I cannot conclude without a fair amount of dread is if the erosion of self-awareness is a change that can stop before it goes from the innocently liberating to the totally debilitating. Certainly mental debilitation must be preferable to physical, as self-awareness insulates the individual from the very knowledge of the deterioration. But it's that very notion of being unaware of yourself or your surroundings that is so daunting.
And what of the circumstances leading to this state? Were these people predisposed to lack of self-consciousness, or can certain major events really create such a change in someone's mind?
That I see this potential in myself probably explains the morbid fascination. I don't consider myself to be socially awkward in any way, and I think I have a healthy amount of self-consciousness. It just seems to me that someone inclined to their own personal mental life would be more prone to losing all self-awareness, eventually becoming a stranger to themselves.
In other words, if I keep boring holes in my mind like this, I may one day find that I've gone too deep and can't find my way out.
We'll just call this public catharsis. As long as moderation is maintained I think it's all quite healthy. I'll just write about the USF game tomorrow to balance things out.
I don't mean to get you all worked up
Except secretly I do
- The Old 97's, "Designs on You"
Posted by Joel at 12/03/2005 02:05:00 AM
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