While listening to a few writers read their poems and personal essays and also talk about where they’re finding the light in these dark times, it occurred to me that… well, I’m not sure how to phrase it – that I don’t have that type of community or those kinds of connections and friendships. It occurred to me that I live much of my life as an observer of community and not a full participant in it.
The reading and conversation took place at an old theater in Chinatown that usually hosts burlesque shows. I sat by myself at the end of the fifth row in the center section. The writers were there to read from the recently published anthology, The People’s Project. To begin, the host, poet Maggie Smith, shared how the anthology came about when she and her co-editor had been texting and talking about the election. As their conversations with each other and with other friends and family grew longer, they noticed that they needed each other and their community as an outlet. Or something like that. I had gone because I wanted to hear how other people are making it through on a day-to-day basis. Much in the same way I sit by the water to be near beauty, wonder, and joy (though never expecting it), I had gone to place myself near other writer and literary types to see if the spark of community or connection might happen organically. And then I did what I always do. I kept to myself and at the end made a beeline for the exit instead of sticking around to talk or buy books.
As I listened to how the anthology came about, I had a moment of reflection that stuck with me for the rest of the evening. I don’t text with anyone. I don’t have long, commiserating conversations with anyone. I spend most of my days not talking, not texting. This silly little blog and whatever I write and file away on my laptop is my primary source of conversation. I avoid being a complete hermit by going out to the bar where I can be semi-social. There, I might have semi-debates with semi-strangers, but as part of my barfly persona, I tend to do more listening than I do sharing. The people at the bar know the basics. I work in the nonprofit sector. I try to make sure everyone gets home safely. I go to a lot of concerts. I’m single and occasionally frustrated by that. I’m liberal and very frustrated by that. And maybe that’s all there is to know or all I’m willing to share or all anyone has bothered to ask. Built over late nights and shared shots, the neighborhood bar is my primary source for community – though very few of those connections extend beyond the dark corners, neon sign, and plate glass window of the bar.
I had a similar reflection about my sparse and limited sense of community at a different poetry reading with a different poet. There, the poet was talking about how the host is one of her first readers – someone to whom she’d send poems and solicit feedback. I don’t have readers, let alone first readers. Most people don’t even know that I make feeble attempts at this writing thing.
I don’t know how I feel about any of this. By that I mean I have days when I think I’d like to be a part of a broader and more artistic community. I have days when I want more than bar friends, when I’d like to know people on a deeper level (or maybe it’s the desire to be known on a deeper level). Though no sooner do I think I’d like something deeper or different or more meaningful, I begin to acknowledge that I’m bad at staying in touch with people and I tend to practice a type of deliberate isolation or hiding in plain sight. I’m afraid that even if I were presented with a different sense of community, I’d be hesitant to join and would probably keep those people at arms length.
This makes me feel like I’m a shitty companion or friend, or that I’m great on the superficial level but distant and aloof at the deeper levels. I have a lot of friends but not many friendships. Everybody loves me yet nobody loves me. And man, I cringe to write that last sentence, because it sounds so much worse and full of self-pity than it actually is or feels. I’m quite matter of fact about all of this – almost to the point of being analytical. I am, sometimes, the neutral observer of my own life. I suppose I could just as easily reverse those sentences – which is probably a more accurate articulation of the situation. I’m friendly with everybody, but I don’t build friendships. I love everybody in the broadest sense, but I don’t love anyone on that deeply personal level.
Sometimes, I think I’d like to do better with friendships and community, but there’s something about the reciprocal nature of relationships (especially new relationships) that makes me uncomfortable. Or maybe it’s the forced nature of some relationships that I don’t like. I will, on occasion, find myself unwilling to extend effort unless I sense effort is being, or will be, extended towards me. While not my norm, this is a miserly way to live and I’ve never thought of myself as being miserly. As such, I’m finding it easy to walk away, and even easier to never start. I’ve had enough things not work out (jobs, cities, relationships friendships), that I find it difficult to be overly invested in much of anything. And by work out, I mean last long enough to not seem fleeting. Perhaps I’ve gotten too comfortable with the temporary nature of life. Perhaps I’ve grown too comfortable with letting my energy flow to wherever it flows and letting relationships, friendships, and opportunities come to me as opposed to pursuing them.
In terms of poetry and writing, I don’t know how to find community without it seeming forced. I don’t think I’d want feedback (criticism or praise) from anyone whose writing I don’t admire or wish to emulate. Having said that, I imagine the writers I admire would feel the same way – which is a roundabout way of saying I don’t think I’d bring much to the table in terms of fostering writing relationships.
But writing is only one community where I stand at the edges quietly knocking, hoping someone answers, but also hoping nobody is home because I’m not sure if I want to be let in in the first place. There’s activism – I participate in the marches, but seldom chant or carry big signs. In that realm, I’m all heart with no direction. There’s romantic relationships – I have dating profiles, but seldom reach out, and when I do, we never seem to get beyond the first few texts before one or both of us drop it. This is where I most often insist on matching each other’s effort. There’s friendships – I ignore texts, avoid commitments, and turn down invitations, and for the life of me I can’t figure out why. There’s geography – I want to be part of the fabric of this city, I want to start something or build something but I also have days when I can envision leaving it behind. It’s beautiful. I love it. I can’t figure out how to embrace it in a more expansive manner.
More often than not, I suspect my swirling confusion on where to place my efforts or where to find community stems from having dedicated the last five or six years of my life to discovering and building the community of the self. And even there, I recognize the efforts are half-hearted and maybe half-assed. The other night I was playing pool with some friends at the bar. I’m not a very good pool player – my friend in State College who had a pool table would attest to this. Despite not being a very good pool player, I had an amazing run to win the game for our team. On my last shot, I sent the cue ball the entire length of the table to the far rail and back to knock the eight ball into the corner pocket. A day or two later, I found myself thinking, maybe I should get better at pool – spend my lunches at empty bars practicing. I say this about a lot of things. Maybe I should work more on my poetry. Maybe I should get in shape to run another half-marathon. Maybe I should learn Spanish. Maybe I should write an article or an op-ed. Maybe I should organize a protest. Maybe I should get a better paying job and travel more. Maybe I should meet more people and play the dating numbers game. Maybe I should start texting people, rekindle old friendships, and work harder on the new ones. Amidst this glowing Christmas light string of maybes, I tell myself to pick something, to get good (or better) at something.
After my beeline exit, I walked home from the poetry reading. I saw a bartender I know working at his new-ish gig. I thought about stopping to say hi but didn’t. Instead, with the desire for community swirling in my head like paper garbage on a windy day, I went to my local spot. I watched the end of the basketball game. A friend told me that she went to a Queen sing-along and when I said I was at a poetry reading, she seemed surprised – didn’t peg me as the poetry reading type of guy. I played a few rounds of pool with some other friends. I did ok. I played dice with the bartender, his girlfriend, and a guy I had never met before – expanding my circle by one more acquaintance. I went home and went to bed.
Several times during the process of writing this, I stopped to check the news – which is always awful. Agents are being deployed to the Bay Area tomorrow, and we can probably expect immigration crackdowns like the ones that have been happening in other cities. The president has explicitly said that San Francisco is next. Additionally, the East Wing of the White House is being demolished despite promises from the president and his press secretary that “nothing will be torn down.” If I want a better sense of community, if I want to immerse myself in something (pool, the bar, poetry, anything), it’s because this daily assault on the constitution, and the norms of our society have become almost too much to process. If I want a sense of community, it’s because I desperately need for something to be honest and true. If I want a sense of community, it’s because like so many people, I’m trying to figure out how to live through this moment and few things seem to be helping.