of accidents and interactions

Last Wednesday's No Deachunter show failed on a few levels. Least among the factors of failure was the music. I think I would have enjoyed myself (and, ultimately, stayed for the remainder of the show) if I had not been fighting two factors: I was sick (a sore throat and cold pestered me), and that creeping shadow of darkness had made its appearance days earlier.

I attended the show alone, and as I stood inside the crowded venue, I was reminded of the strange and lonely existence my life is. (I have a wonderful girlfriend and I keep a close circle of friends; unfortunately, that circle exists outside of Bloomington. Time and distance, of course, has an estranging effect on people, which, despite the lines of communication the Internet has opened, can only be softened by personal contact.) I was practically surrounded by groups of mingling parties – the noise of their conversations hummed at an imperceptible pitch. I was quiet. Alone. A silent witness waiting for the music to begin. I pondered the existence of each boy, of each girl. Each life. And I wondered how that life portrayed itself against the backdrop of solitude – that quiet space away from the collective. And I considered my own existence, but my solitude wasn't confined elsewhere; my solitude was not obscured amidst a group of friends and acquaintances. My solitude was evident as I stood alone – away from the crowd yet part of it. My association with those strangers that evening was solely linked by the words on the club's marquee: Wed – Deerhunter, Dan Deacon, No Age. I would have no personal contact that evening; my contact would be the timeless relationship between man and sound.

Contact, especially in a social setting like a rock show, has always been difficult for me, which is why I've always been an outsider. (Even in the mostly faceless world of social networking sites, of which I rarely participate, I'm hesitant to 'meet' someone.) I still wonder why this life is my life, but as I age, I wonder why this life has chosen me – and that is indeed how I feel. I feel as though, as different as my social life is from others, my development and other accidents throughout my life have contributed to this fate. Odd because I don't believe anyone lives within a preordained bubble. I do, however, believe that, for reasons unknown, we are drawn to certain patterns; our preference of patterns determines our reality. The human brain is constantly identifying the patterns of words, faces, sounds and objects. If the psychological definition of pattern recognition is the brain's ability to identify a set of stimuli arranged in a specific pattern that is characteristic of that set of stimuli, then does pattern recognition not occur when we are confronted with a series of interactions? What about memory? Do the memories we recall, or, more precisely, the memories we choose to recall, rather consciously of otherwise, eventually form a pattern – a pattern that forms the fabric of our lives?

I believe that from an early age I learned to recognize – and fear – certain patterns of social interaction. My shyness springs from an inherent distrust of others (which contributes to a fear of rejection), and the origins of that distrustfulness have been blogged here many times, so I won't rehash them once again. Now that I have written this pseudo-theory of the development of my introverted personality, what have I gained? Does understanding the method of one's machinery offer any solace?

Sometimes I think all of this is just a vain attempt to establish an identity for myself – an identity that does not exist, not outside of my mental processes, anyway. After all, is the human identity, or soul, just a series of accidents and interactions, a sequence of events that we consciously and unconsciously select to piece together a pattern – a design that tells us, This is who I am?

xx