the hermit and his cave
June twenty-ninth. I gotta get in shape. Too much sitting has ruined my body. Too much abuse has gone on for too long. From now on there will be 50 pushups each morning, 50 pullups. There will be no more pills, no more bad food, no more destroyers of my body. From now on will be total organization. Every muscle must be tight.
— Travis Bickle, Taxi Driver (1976)
I guess as one grows older their roles in society change, the older generation tends to demote themselves to the observer, juxtaposing the current world around them with a world that they have constructed; pathologies, memories, and ideas swirling around to craft the illusion of the “memory”. Some look back with rose-tinted glasses and others repress and recoil in horror praying that their subconscious hands them a sliver of mercy.
To forget. To forget, what an excellent virtue in the face of trauma.
I think it’s a given that humans are not the best at remembering things and to be honest, outside of let’s say communicating with law enforcement, why would anyone need to accurately and precisely remember minute details? Storytellers are prided on their ability to craft a great narrative however boring and banal the original subject matter is, not their ability to provide “great accuracy” when relaying a story.
Have I leant in? If so, then congratulations the gift of the gab befalls you. Use it wisely many a man has had their character challenged in the face of gossip. The narcissist toes the line when their character is questioned— the cognitive dissonance of thinking everyone has an opinion of you and the low self-worth of simultaneously thinking no one cares. The thing is they aren’t mutually exclusive. Some do have an idea and you are powerless to change it, while the majority do not care. You find yourself in a different company. Those who once had a shared connection, share nothing but the desire to be a thousand miles away from you. You feel it and so do they. How awkward.
You open your phone, and conversations once fluid and back and forth are now a sea of blue messages. Delivered, but you have not been delivered the privilege of conversation.
The curtains have closed and the show is over. This next game is called ‘facing the music’— To reap the benefits of one’s actions; my method was to become a recluse. I found it to be the path of least resistance. Why reach out if you know that the other party is not going to pick up, save yourself dignity.
“So too a healthy mind should be prepared for anything. The one that keeps saying, “Are my children all right?” or “Everyone must approve of me” is like eyes that can only stand pale colors, or teeth that can handle only mush.”
— Meditations by Marcus Aurelius
The stoics were right about this one. Disappointment cant take you by surprise if you were already awaiting its company with bated breath. The narcissist may start to weigh up their role in this, and of course, they are still to blame, hence the facing of the music. The rapport you once held is now demoted to a sea of blue iMessage bubbles and it is mainly the product of your actions. You must take responsibility, but at the same time, you must also know that this outcome was going to happen regardless, It was inevitable. Now, this does not absolve you, you still broke the social contract, but in a world where you are destined to die alone, your true crime was you merely accelerating the process.
You combed through the source, auditing it— you even pejoratively called it spaghetti code. Bloated and messy, how could this work and better still who in their right mind would run this? But contrary to all of your grievances the code compiles and still executes without a hitch.
The world keeps spinning and the hermit returns to its cave. Postulating on the state of things. Its circle shrinking and powerless to act. The hermit doesn’t want your pity a cave sounds scary but really your perception of caves and cave systems is most likely flawed.
The cave is a dojo, with four walls with no restrictions on refining the craft. You answer to no one there is only one objective and that is to do something more than the day before, you open FL Studio you’ve been sent the stems to a new beat, it has some cool concepts and ideas you can work with you change the arrangement of the song and apply the appropriate effects to get the desired results that you were after, your software is really expensive but you’ve pirated it all. The cave has it all, you maybe even record some vocals on this song. Maybe a rap 8 bars, 16 maybe even 32? That new Kendrick album must have really inspired you. Have you delivered the best verse of your life? Who knows all I’m aware of is that these four walls are oozing creativity and I refuse to waste a drop, you put your headphones on so as not to disturb the other individuals that also dwell in your domicile. They don’t have caves, that’s a unique relationship between you and the cave. One purple LED illuminates the room, and an atmosphere of creativity is unavoidable. The pull of creation dragging you under the riptide.
The cave is inspiring but it is lonely and lucky for you, you have worked so long on this sound it’s now 3 am— evening time for Americans on the East coast. You are never alone. The cave has it all. They don’t know about the social contracts you broke in the real world which created these conditions of solitude. You’re simply just a British guy up later than usual.
These are your new friends. You possess a shared connection maybe over a niche item of pop culture for example a manhattan based podcast, you both share nothing but the desire to be a thousand miles closer to each other. You feel it and so do they. How awkward. In fact, you’ve met a few of these individuals in real life.
You open your phone, and conversations are fluid, a ping pong back and forth of blue and grey messages, Delivered! Some even have read receipts. Oh to indulge in the privilege and beauty of conversation. To be in the presence of individuals who don’t want to evacuate by the nearest fire escape. One could get used to this.
And as time passes you do. Time is forgotten to the cavernous expanse, his timezone synced with American eastern standard time and if amphetamines are involved you get to say hey to those on the West coast too! The last redcoat, dwells in the Kingdom of a dying empire, like an Okinawan soldier who hadn’t received news of the war’s end.
Songs are completed and catalogued in their respective folders waiting for all parties involved to craft the master PR plan. To reach the widest audience and to win the hearts and minds on the battlefield of creativity. Articles are queued like rounds in the chamber. Ready for deployment to any poor soul who surrendered their email address.
Is this the singularity? A sullied reputation, the absence of meaning in the material and a lifetime of loneliness and solitude.
My cave, my beautiful cave.