home page
“Whom shall I play for you?”: impersonating mr. natural
September 18-21, 2011

For civil life (and organizational life) innerworldliness is marginalized, necessarily. Complexity of feeling, heartfelt values, motivating ideals, cherished enjoyments—features integral to meaningfulness in a life—are functionally excluded, privatized. Indeed, personally meaningful time is supplemental in most of life, as time (and capability) may hardly allow for thinking, which remains relatively unappealing, like steep hills. Solitude makes one nervous.

How innerworldliness may prevail (to my mind) over the outerworldliness we share (i.e., people presuming outerworldly prevalence over innerworldliness among “us”) is irrelevant to most shared time. The difference as such is dimly conceived, relative to one’s own privacy, itself likely understood dimly, as if each of us is mainly what’s present to each other, such that the obvious privacy of each is marginal to “our” lives.

Relative to that, solidarities are special, causing growth of “friendships” (actually, mere acquaintanceships) premised on shared neighborhood and those special solidarities.

Better yet, “friends” who come to feel like family (kindreds) are true friends, so important to a good life, and become part of an interpersonal innerworldliness relative to relatively-outerworldly acquaintanceships (and civil life).

Best of all, intimacies happen: interpsychal bonds that are innerwoldly relative to “mere” friendships (and the rest of life).

So, the difference or boundary—the differencing or fencing—of inner irt outer is a relative thing. One interpsychal intimacy may feel essentially exclusive of another interpsychal intimacy (e.g., a lover relative to a family member, commonly accepted). At best, interpsychal intimacy is like a “shared” intrapsychality (True Love, it’s said). Yet, years may cause basic changes in oneself that give an intimacy a relative outerworldliness. For example, one may grow to feel “I dearly love you within our bounds. But it’s not enough anymore.” A once-shared intrapsychality finds boundaries emerging relative to a better, higher intimacy with oneself (or with another person, commonly unexpected [but often occurrant]) because, say, one’s current partner didn’t want to come along often enough in changes or in one’s pursuit of authentic interests. The other’s love of one’s authentic interests waned. Once-shared pathmaking became too contrived; roads diverged.

Intimations of authentic possibilities (or appeals of exotic transgression) show in the appeal of fictions—stories of secrecies and erotic living—though we don’t wish to have those lives exactly, rather to just vicariously entertain them, like angels watching passioned embodiments never to be lived. We want to have really Lived. Yet, actually, we want our ownmost life to change.

Thoughts of a day. My point is about psychal differencing, not any specific relationship (though reveries and generalities always emerge from somewhere or set of wheres or things.)

I’d go through endless days of sharing all kinds of thoughts with you; or I’d get drawn into my solitude, which you found endearing because you loved the eventual result, and I loved you loving that. Now you’re gone.

I go through the common day in a performance art of seeming to be little more than wholly being there with others, as if there’s no performance, just genuinely bounded presence—which is genuine for my part. I am there, as if little is excluded—as if the world is more or less wholly the common day. (Organizational life can feel like a more-vacuous version of a boring marriage.)

Continuing the reverie: Seeming to not be in a performance implies an aire of spontaneous, unwitting naturality of my being for others (the one “we” know so differently), essentially belonging to the common day as the center of what matters (which has merit: the common day returns and returns and returns).

The good performance lacks an appearance of pretense. (Wanna hear about it?) The actor “is” the character (so fully in character that the difference doesn’t occur to interpersonal others), as if there’s no relevant backstage, no implicit audience (our intimacy) entertaining them, reveling in an exotic difference.

But the presence of others is often too much. It keeps me out of myself in interpersonal space, fine; I love others. But when I really come out to play, that can easily become too intense for interpersonal time: too reflective, too recursive—fine. I’ve lived with that for decades.

I love my own time—of course: don’t we all—yet for me, it’s a love of serenity and emergences—all that emergence “says.”

I imaginatively enjoy watching you, just enjoying your presence (thank you, memory), perhaps looking dim-minded in others’ eyes, like someone lost to an art work in a gallery where they want me to “hurry along,” break the trance. “What do you see there?” (I saw a blank-walled office as an art gallery!)

I turn their way, “blankly” entertaining them. They leave.


That’s part 4 of “elations of solitude.” Here’s part 5.