by TJ Price
“What a relief to have nothing to say, the right to say nothing, because only then is there a chance of framing the rare, and ever rarer, thing that might be worth saying.” —Gilles Deleuze
I struggle sometimes to write this column. See, it forces me to confront an essential question, which is: what exactly do I have to say? Which of course then leads to what exactly do I have to say that is worth saying? My typical form of writing originates from the headwaters of poetry—when it comes to critique or feedback, I prefer the analysis of syntax over plot structure and debate regarding semantic choice over character development. But when I consider this column space, the blankness of it is daunting. Because of its placement in the larger magazine, it is something which I know will be read, or at least scrolled past, so I have to recalibrate my thinking to encompass getting attention.
One of the themes I have been working with a lot lately in my fiction writing is this very thing: drawing attention to oneself, akin to the Lacanian theory of the Gaze, but extrapolated outward, in the direction of cosmic horror. I am aware that this is not a feeling many others share. Some folks even thrive on attention, craving the spotlight, sometimes to the extent of elbowing others out of the way. This feeling is anathema to me—I recall the cartoons of my youth, in which the hapless creature, suffused with pride, looks down to see the big black X painted on the ground they stand. This mark, of course, is quickly blotted out by the rapidly-expanding shadow of something enormous, plummeting from an unknown point above. Then, cue the quick-cuts: wilting ears, constricting pupils (maybe a little umbrella,) followed by the decisive and inevitable sound of a discordant piano exploding on impact, the woozy creature’s teeth replaced by tinkling ivories.
To me, being noticed is terrifying enough when it’s just another human on the other end of the Gaze. I don’t speak of casual interaction in neutral spaces, a soft frisson of recognition and dismissal, though—for me, to be noticed implies a certain level of interest or fascination. A sort of hunger, even. It’s the cruel potential for envy or jealousy that frightens me, I think. Envy coupled with power.
I consider the ancient concept of hubris. Pride goeth before a fall, as they say. Acting in this manner would inflame the jealous gods above, surely eliciting a swift and terrible punishment out of the clear blue sky. It was to keep us humble, even if the antics of that swarming pantheon of gods (and their progeny) surely rivals any of our modern-day reality television. There’s nothing wrong with humility—in fact, I think it’s an integral part of most of religion’s basic tenets: be humble, serve.
In fact, there’s very little in any canon (outside of maybe LaVey?) which puts value on the individual, which has always felt a little odd to me. My experience with most religion seems to stress the emphasis of the community and the abdication (if not abjectification) of the self in favor of the teachings, or the deity/deities beyond. It’s as if the adherents of the religion in question should ideally form a sort of amorphous shape with a unified voice, rather than made up of individual people with individual speech. Perhaps these bigger communities are easier to see from so high above—but if that’s true, then it also becomes far easier to wipe them out with one fell lightning bolt.
So why the sin of hubris? Why is being noticed such a bad thing, standing out from the crowd? I consider mimicry, in the animal kingdom. Most mimicry is performed defensively, in order to hide prey from predator, or to evade notice entirely. Blending in with one’s surroundings is the surest safety. Of course, some animals have figured out how to wear camouflage so as to better destroy other life, but this is not as common (at least, not for most species.)
Yet in today’s world, attention is a commodity, an essential ingredient in the recipe for our society—increasingly, one of which we seem to be in short supply. Every article we read online is reduced to a slowly constricting pupil, surrounded and crowded by various advertisements, banners, flashing video clips. (One can almost feel their ears wilting in the shadow of the piano’s inexorable plummet.) Everything and everyone seems to be clamoring, flashing, smiling, sobbing.
And then, after awhile, it all sort of starts to lump together. The tears and the laughter and the bright lights and the swirling colors. Though we walk through a field of vibrant color, it may as well be gray for all we can react to it. We become overwhelmed by multitudes, which accumulate by a magnitude. All is rendered static: a unified field of indistinguishable noise which we then must use our technology to sort through and make sense of. (This, of course, the provenance of Large Language Models, built on algorithms and predictions and filters on the universe and behavior of available information.)
But despite all this, we continue to need to express ourselves. Much of this expression takes the form of communication—in one way or another—which is only ever really satisfied by the presence of a receiver, preferably multiples. We become a part of the static whether or not we mean to, and we try to find ways that our particular flickering stands out for longer, brighter, than all the rest. We believe that being noticed is key to longevity, to legacy. If we can get the attention of the most people possible, we seem to think it will create a kind of egregore, via mystical participation. Through that entity, we are assured, we will then live on forever.
As we all know, however, most strains of fame are fatal, attacking on all fronts: the physical body, the mind, and the soul. Only a very few seem to have the ability to exist despite the benthic pressure of so much observation. Fame attaches a tether to one’s past, and one may not walk too far into the future without being abruptly halted by its limit. Yet how ardently we seem to desire it—being Known, being Seen! We often even settle for crowd-sourced identity (provided it is flattering, of course) despite the fact that it comes with a choke-chain.
Though it flies in the face of most natural laws, we crave to be seen by others, to be validated, to be recognized. To be heard, to be read. Our reflections cannot soothe us; the sound of our own voice is alien to our own ears. Despite the possible proximity of lurking predators, despite the jealous gods in their high firmament, we continue to speak so that others may hear—even when we have nothing to say. We are afraid to become wistful Echo, fading by degrees, and so we become Narcissus, gazing longingly at what is only ever written in water; at what might be easily dispelled by the slightest impact from above. No piano necessary—a single drop of rain will do, or even a poorly-guarded tear.
Interestingly enough, though I feel as if I have nothing to say, I’ve used up nearly 1200 words talking about it. Even now, I can feel the silence surrounding me start to bunch up, gathering, gliding into position like a snake poised to strike, either repelled—or attracted—by all this noise I’m making, and this enormous, invisible threat is rising, rising…
The obvious thing to do would be to shut up. To stop making these sounds—carrying on with this ruckus as though I am blithely ignorant of what shadow now dwarfs me, here at this very moment where my words have so idly taken me, as if I am only just now for the first time realizing there’s this big black X beneath my own feet; as if, in these final seconds, the shadow’s pool growing larger and larger around me, I open my mouth to speak, and nothing comes out—neither a bang, nor a whimper. Perhaps this, then, is the truest camouflage—blending into meaninglessness, indistinguishable from the void, waiting for an artificial filter to pluck us out of the moiré morass of static?
Or do I just change the channel? Lord knows if it were me reading, I would’ve skipped out on this three paragraphs ago. Or maybe now it’s just sunk cost fallacy. You’ve made it this far. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel, right? There’s gotta be! There always is!
Unless, of course, it’s not a tunnel after all. Maybe it’s a cave. But even if it’s a cave, the dancing shadows on the wall will keep us happy. Right?
Sure they will. At least, until the fire burns out.
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