Alice Minium
I. Machines.
I do not envy the modern lifestyle. Working a repetitive, soul-sucking job where humans are required to behave like machines makes me feel dead inside. As Whitman alludes to many times, there is no insignificant job, and in any job I can use my imagination and share goodwill with all the world.
However, modern society will absolutely make you feel like a machine, if you let it. If you inside your little box-house long enough, staring at your picture-box, and eating things out of boxes, and arranging all your ideas into boxes inside boxes into boxes. You will forget that things without boxes can exist. Humans were not made to live life out of boxes, and boxes are not our natural state. It chokes you, for a reason. You feel constrained, for a reason. You feel tired, for a reason. You forget that you can unplug the box any time.
At least, I forget.
I forget, sometimes, that I am not a machine. Everything I do and say is so task-like, preprogrammed, and empty. I have to entirely unplug myself from social convention to, as Whitman says in Section 5, line 3, “loose the stop from [my] throat.” How dangerous is such an act. How deviant it is to wildly abandon the groupthink, without hesitation or apology. Every day I find myself straddling the juxtaposition of these two opposing principles, awkwardly balancing a medium between the two, so I can be free and yet stereotypically functional within the world. Deep within, or really not so deep at all, I yearn to be wildly free. Yet one cannot be wildly free and still be nondescript about it. How dangerous it is to unplug oneself entirely. How fundamentally disruptive to modern society.
Whitman’s teachings are fundamentally disruptive to modern society.
The modern way does not “ask the sky to come down to my good will,/Scattering it freely forever” (14:18-19) nor “tenderly…use…curling grass” (10:12). To embrace the sky is absurd. Society regards the sky as an inert ceiling, not a door. The curling grass exists for lawns and is meant to be mowed, of course.
Not according to Whitman. In a highly controversial move, Whitman tells us in Section 5, line 3, “Loafe with me on the grass.” To loafe means to just kind of hang out without any objective at all. When was the last time someone told you to just go hang out aimlessly? We are more familiar with the scolding, “Work harder,” than with someone telling us to do the complete opposite of work. Work less, says Whitman.
The feeling of Song of Myself is songlike, and slow. It is rhythmic and unhurried, like a long summer’s day spent loafing in the grass, celebrating your own existence for exactly no reason at all.
In the modern world, we are discouraged from doing anything for no reason at all. Everything must be productive in some way. Everything must be busy, and fast. All of my life is fast. Even my mind is fast. Even when the noise and stimuli stop, still my mind is chattering away like a sick seizing ape bouncing neurons around, deluded with the importance of objects, drunk on the toxicity of Normal and Daytime. Better to be an animal, as Whitman frames so beautifully in Section 32, lines 3-6:
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied with the mania of owning things.
We are erratic, thirsty, yet perpetually dehydrated beasts gone absolutely mad with the mania of owning things. Whitman makes an astounding proposition in Section 2, when he beautifully satirizes the fallibility of his own medium, poetry, which is revered and consumed by so many, who fuss over its mysteries, hoping to extract from it “the origin of all poems.” In line 20, he invites us, “Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems.”
In other words, how do you get where you are going? Stop.
II. Stop.
Can you imagine the implications if we were all to suddenly, stop? If we put down our books, abandoned our work, and decided to wildly, recklessly play? How ever could society function if we all just looked at flowers? How on earth could we ever produce a commodifiable good?!
Perhaps, instead, a better question, is why is the production of commodifiable goods the ultimate goal of society? Is that really the best we can do? Is productivity and efficiency and material output really the prime potential of the oh-so-great and sentient homo sapiens?
Do we not call ourselves “enlightened?” Do we not call the era of rapid philosophical development the Enlightenment, out of which, we are taught, sprang the modern material era in which we now live? And if that is so, and modern man is, unlike his planetary cohabitants, enlightened in his world of materialism, then I ask you, where is that light?
I do not see it.
I see a world that is hungry and sick in its soul. I see a world of consumers and producers. I see a world of souls hammered into commodifiable goods and dissected to extract their most profitable components.
I see minds like televisions that have been on mute for years, and don’t even remember they are capable of song, so they purchase a laugh track for $9.99 to distract them from the SILENCE that is ABSENCE that we have not heard in so long that we are terrified. We hear the sound of our own breath, and ask in horror WHAT IS THAT MONSTER. We hear the music of the mind and it is alien. It is raw and real, alien and un-plastic, the same electric ahhh that hums through all of nature, innervating every membrane of dimension into sensation and form, and we cringe at it, because we do not know it.
We cringe at it because, like an animal kept in a cage its whole life, we neither understand nor desire to know the world beyond the cage. We are penitent, pitiful pets of some sadistic extradimensional creatures who feed on fear and hatred and by god we keep them well-fed. How disgusted we are by anything that lives outside the cage. How fearful we are of those beasts. How wild they are. How uncontained. How unenlightened. How vibrantly and violently the electricity of Being Alive pulses through them like electric shock even to the blazing profusion of a growl or a shriek? How uncivilized their UTTER ALIVENESS.
Look into the eyes of your cashier clerk or picture of success and tell me we are not dead.
Do you regularly, as in Section 1, line 1, “celebrate [your]self”? How often do you do that every day? Do you, as in Section 1, line 4, “loafe and invite [your] soul”? Have you invited your soul to be in attendance today? Would you even know its address?
Look into your own soul, and tell me, do you even recognize it? Or is it a formidable foreign land to you, once whose labyrinths you have yet never to wander? Have you met yourself? If you did, would you like her? Have you yet to meet a flower? Have you met the acid sky, the spray-paint grass, even the soft warm woodness of your desk? Have you met it for what it is, stopped to feel it and only it and do no other thing, felt and breathed its every scent and color with the unjudging eager attention of a lover (Section 3: 20-21, 24:48)? Have you even met your own body so? Or do we know these things only to be Things, as extensions to be utilized for production, as inert meat and matter, COMMODIFIABLE GOOD? Where does commodifiable good end and Realness begin? Is it the physical objects in closest proximity for which we most greedily perspire? Is it with our bodies? Is it with our minds? Are any of these things even ours anymore?
In Section 30: 1-3, Walter reminds us:
All truths wait in all things,
They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,
They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon.
These questions Alice raises, and these precepts Walt proposes, are absurd and dangerous. Of course modern life is fulfilling. To hypothesize that it is not will create an error in the algorithm.
III. Play.
Let us dissect this hypothesis with the obstetric forceps of a surgeon and extract the cancer of fragmented meaning that so errantly has grown here. The cancer of inspiration can prove fatal to the organism, and is almost universally malignant to the capitalist-industrialist paradigm when left unchecked. Passion unbridled and a wild MOAN, an errant SHRIEK, an existential YAWN, a SITTING ON THE TABLE AT THE AIRPORT have been known to rapidly metastasize into the infectious WILD of a Being-Poem; and men will awaken to their own breath and love the taste, and they will laugh, and women will realize they are men, and men will realize they are cats, and children will giggle at the poem of this in the airport, and everyone will run around; and no one with a PriceTagNameTagVeryImportant will tell us to “stop,” and if they do, we will not hear them; or if we do, we won’t know how; because we have unstopped, and now unlive our lives in a single molecule of stretched-out simultaneous moment.
All of essence is available to us Forever And Ever Always Now in every flower and each breath (“All truths wait in all things,” says Section 30: Line 1), we need not wait. We need not painstakingly throttle life by the throat, choking it, dying to extract a droplet of Essence to haphazardly drip from its sponge-like skeleton for … we are so thirsty and the world is dead, and sick, and we meet ourselves at night in the blank white walls, and we meet the kiss of God in the sinews of our sweat within the grinding mechanical motion between Must and Pain; we feel Her So-Invasive Intimate Kiss, and it feels profane, it is so Everything, and I have stared at this screen for so long. My eyes burn, I stare and see nothing. My wild dendrites of yearning and yes are numb, and clipped, and freshly manicured for academic-industrial-workplace Exhaustion; drink this cup until you fulfill you unless you’ll drink it or die (or maybe you won’t, but Nobody’s lived to tell the tale). Is this not nonsense?
When the modus operandi of logical truth is actually nonsense, is absurdity not the only way to defy it? Is it not revolutionary to be absurd? Are Whitman’s truths not absurd by the standards of society?
“I exist as I am, that is enough/ If no other in the world be aware I sit content,” he declares in Section 20: line 25. Wait, what? What about all the things you need? What about all the things you have to do, all the modifications you need to make to your body, all the goals you need to accomplish, all the toys you need to buy? What about all the friends you need to impress, all the legitimacy you need to obtain through the recognition of other people? To say “I am enough,” is a counterculture act.
Please, the world will say, package up your aimless abstractions and deposit them in the Recycling for they are simply cluttering up productive space which could be occupied by an advert. You’re not good enough, be hungry, and purchase some accessories on your way out the door. Nobody has time for your abstractions, Alice. They are absurd, and you will be expelled from the belly of the capitalist organism like an acidic virus we must vomit up. You will destroy it from within.
Would such expulsion really be horrific? Is freedom from containment, in fact, the worst we fear? If that is why we are not wild, then, by all means, please expel me! If that is all we fear, why don’t we do the ridiculous things we always want, and sit on tables supposed to be chairs? Stop showing up? Check out completely? Look at a flower? Drop our tools? Forget our plans? Put down our phones and drink the sky? Would that really be so bad?
We live inside of paper plastic prop-up houses fabrications of fabrications of fabrications of fabrications of something that resembled a Real Thing once. Now it is “more convenient,” and dead, and made of Styrofoam. Mankind is dead, and our minds are made of Styrofoam. We don’t dislike it, because we don’t remember how. We are Styrofoam bubble-wrap brains that pop Reaction at pre-programmed synapse site. We simulate original emotion, but oh, it has been ages since we have felt a real thing. We numb the impossibly potent penetration of syringical injection of love and dying (events that command us to genuinely feel) with So Sorry Feed Me Baby Eat Me Like A Rich Food (consume another person). We have packaged even that into commodity.
In the crevices between the tectonics plates of moment, we feel the ache of dissonance on occasion. It grinds like Old, though we are Yet Young, and have forgotten. Ever since we picked up tools and found our “civilization,” we’ve forgotten how to delicately finger the velveteen skin of a single blade of baby grass. We have forgotten how to loafe. We have forgotten that we are happy; and that this is not a test, this is a game; that we are not mute, we are laughter; and all the world breathes with us in this music we need only to hit
play
play with me, stay with me, flowy lotus of nonprocedural juxtaposition of chaos and complexity utterly devoid of catechism drippingly infused with sex-sweet nectar of holographic need (only, now.).
Such is my prayer, my invitation, and such was Whitman’s.
The invitation begins, “Forget your plans.”
This invitation is to my own soul, my own soul only. This song is to you, my soul.
I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you. (19:17)
I am telling you, my soul. Hear my invitation, for I love you. I recognize your presence. I have not heard your voice in so long. I have told you my secrets. Now, I can do nothing but listen.