Monday, September 15, 2008

Existentialism, Self-Reflection, and Identity

What is it that makes a person alive? It is a question which has been mulled over for thousands of years by barstool philosophers, professionals, and melodramatic artists. We all take for granted the fact that we are alive, yes, technically alive. The Bible proclaims that life is in the blood- it is one of my favorite Pro-Choice arguments, so why not bring it up here? I have blood, you have blood, the homeless guy smoking cigarettes on the corner with the ambiguously colored jacket knocking on telephone poles all day has blood, too. But does that mean that we are alive in the spiritual sense, or just the physical?

I would have to say that, in order for someone to be alive, they would have to exist. It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? But let that sink in for a moment. Existence is a well-worn novel in the hands of humanity. We have looked it over since the very first psilocybin mushrooms gave us the curse of self-reflection. In order for something to exist, it must be observed interacting with things which are proven to exist. Dark matter and Strange Matter both exist, as they are microscopic particles in distant space which have been observed to have had reaction to not only the surrounding particles, but to the observation, itself. But does a single blade of grass exist if its roots have eroded into nothingness and its angle does not catch the wind? It would have no contact with the other blades of grass, neither above nor below ground, it would be unaffected by the breeze which moves every other blade in sight. Is that blade alive? Does it exist?

I don’t think so. Not in a spiritual or metaphorical sense, anyhow.

There are people in the world who go to work every day, yet no one knows who they are, that pass their neighbors on their way home every day, but that neighbor doesn’t even notice. These same people go out in public and aren’t even seen by the bank tellers, gas station clerks, or other customer service representative who is employed to see these people. These invisible people are the ones who walk into restaurants and seat themselves, because the host or hostess take no notice, then they sit unserved for an hour because nobody sees them sitting as plain as day at their table. These people could quite literally walk into a bank vault and walk out again, unscathed, until the video tapes have been perused for days or even weeks afterward. These background people are real, and we’re everywhere.

I like to think of us as ‘the ones who walk between the rain,’ from a song lyric I heard years ago. It sums us up.

The C.I.A. has been using the knowledge of these Background People for years. There was even a special on 60 Minutes a few years back about how they do it. Anyone remember that one?

No?

That is what has me convinced that we are not alive. In fact, if we were literally not alive, you would never know it. I, personally, could die at home, in public, violently, naturally, or in pretty much any circumstance I wish and the only person who would know is the one who had to clean me up. The only way anyone who knows my name would recognize that I was gone, is when my philo(scoff)ical articles no longer appear. It is my way of coming to the foreground, stepping into the bank vault, so to speak, so that someone watching the surveillance tapes would eventually be forced to see that I’m here. I’m real. I’m alive, physically at least.

I’m sure you’re shaking your head right now- if you’ve even read my words- because such things just aren’t true. You all have somebody in your mind, someone in your heart, and in your phone as well. Most of them are in all three. Up to one hundred fifty people, as dictated by the human brain in a theory referred to as “the monkeysphere.” I’m not joking. But if you were to take the time to imagine that everyone in your phone or rolodex has moved away, become too busy, or had a falling out with you, you might see that there are people who can literally have no one. There are people with no connection with their co-workers, no relationship with their neighbors, no friends to remember their birthday, and no family to remember their name. If you’ve imagined it this far, you might as well picture what your life would be like when the only voice you hear directed at you throughout your day is your own. It is a hell, a misery which even the most vile and abominable of criminals does not deserve. It is a good reason why the ones who walk between the rain are not technically alive. And why, once we’ve realized what we are, we no longer wish to remain physically alive.

It is a freedom, in a way; for instance, I can speak with several convincing accents. It is a hobby of mine, to speak to myself in different voices and accents. It breaks up the monotony of my loneliness, if only a little. It is a freedom that I can start speaking to everyone that I meet in an English or Icelandic or Scottish accent, that I can begin introducing myself as Bingstrom Banton, Halgaar Sorrenssen, or Patrick Caelíd, and no one would ever know the difference. I could quite literally change everything about myself to the point where I am no longer Grady F. Richards III, but some alter-ego out of a Freudian nightmare. Anyone could attempt it, but only a Background Person can make it real. We have no one to call us on our lies. We have nothing holding us back.

I choose to remain Grady F. Richards III, not because I think being a typical, uninteresting, naïve American will get me anywhere in life, but because I hope that some day, someone will love me for who I am, not who I am adept at pretending to be. The assumed identity is an amusing concept, but it is not who I am. I pride myself on honesty and integrity. Sure, I understand that one certain way to un-become a Background Person is to become an exciting and exotic and boisterous foreigner with a great tale to tell- and I’m a writer, aren’t I? I can spin some yarns, if I so chose. But that would be counter productive, because there would come a day when I had to wake up and admit to myself that, while everyone loves Bingstrom Banton, no one loves Grady F. Richards III. I have to face that while living my life in truth, I could never accept that while living a lie.

It’s an amusing thought, though. And hell, do you ever really know anyone? Maybe we don’t have to love someone for who they are, but can we at least appreciate them for not acting like someone they’re not?

It is this consideration of fellow man, this care, concern, and immutable goodness that has convinced me that, although I walk between the rain, I am alive. Perhaps more alive than I’ll ever know.