Indecision

Self-interest

The perfect noble protagonist, some will observe, rarely considers his or her own self-interest. No accident, this: we naturally find another's absorbtion with Self to be abhorrent, for such activity infringes upon our own.

The image of nobility, then, does not allow the noble to debase themselves with self-concerning thoughts. The image of nobility, observed, does not force us, its observers, to cease our own self-focus. "Nobility" allows us to remain within, self-contained: it does not force us to ourselves be noble.

And yet there is an attractive confidence to the opposite side of this. The perfectly ignoble--a self-absorbed buffoon, thinking only of himself--is no hero, but he is often a protagonist. And he often gets the girl. The reasons we love this scoundrel, though, are the same for which we also love his noble brother: one distracts us from our self-loathing, while the other does not keep us from self-love.

We are a fickle species, we audience.

March 2015

Hay in a Pincushion

Craigslist personals: that wierd, sad, lonely corner of our endlessly mystifying culture.

This is an occasional late-night morbid-curiosity hobby of mine.  Something about the raw, desperate tenor in these online guttees appeals to my sense that we are approaching some social deconstruction, here.  We are losing something.

On most pages, in most Craigslists, tucked between the prostitutes and dick pics, are the cries of desperately lonely people who do not know where to look for companionship.  They cast a line for a needle in a haystack; they self-consciously admit they've never done this before; they nervously disclose irrelevant information.  The mask reveals much more than it conceals.

And for all I read and do not understand, I also fail to comprehend what draws me back.