Loneliness, Yoga and Isolation

“What should young people do with their lives today? Many things, obviously. But the most daring thing is to create stable communities in which the terrible disease of loneliness can be cured.”

Kurt Vonnegut said this in 1982, decades before humanity would become steeped in a world of social media, cellphones, pandemics and artificial intelligence. I think he would be horrified at just how un-lonely the world was in the early 80s compared to today. I’ve read more and more headlines about today’s loneliness epidemic, and have observed firsthand the decline of clubs, sports leagues, religion and spontaneous gatherings, along with the rise of privacy fences, ear buds and cellphones, all of which are built to quash potential conversations. My daughter, while attending orientation at the University of Louisville eight years ago, lamented the fact that in an earlier era when students waited for the festivities to begin, they would have struck up conversations rather than leaning on the comfort of scrolling through their phones.

By contrast, I can still remember the first person I spoke to at my graduate school orientation in 1992. Today, that conversation would likely never occur.

But hell, when it comes to disengaging, I’m exhibit A, or at least B or C. After being a late holdout on the purchase of a flip-phone, and eventually a smartphone, I’ve become adept at passing time via a screen versus speaking with a fellow human being, and after years of heavy involvement at my synagogue and other volunteer activities, I’ve pulled away. And, for the moment, this disengagement feels…good. Comfortable. Cocoon-like. But as Roger Waters concluded in Pink Floyd’s magnum opus The Wall, isolation decays the mind. It places us too much inside our own heads and our own echo chambers, and the inevitable result is loneliness and perhaps even a descension into fear and paranoia.

All of this brought to mind something I read in Benjamin Lorr’s book about groceries that I blogged about a few months ago. In it, he references a previous book of investigative journalism that he authored called Hell-Bent: Obsession, Pain, and the Search for Something Like Transcendence in Competitive Yoga.

Lorr writes about his immersion into the world of yoga, where people “would enter a studio and bend for eight hours a day, busy doctors, lawyers, bankers who would sneak off to fit in an hour and a half on their lunch break. In yoga it was self-betterment, self-improvement, or becoming a stronger, more radiant version of yourself.  And in it, I found a whole community based on this ethos: people reveling in the very real ways they had transformed from couch potatoes and addicts, remarking after every class about just how much more capable they felt now. But wat was the end? What did you do once you became a better version of yourself? Where did all this self-improvement lead? The answer was always back to more yoga. Never volunteer at a clinic or a food kitchen, never for a studio owner to open more classes to the poor or injured. Never to take our radiant yoga bodies and put them to use in the service for others. And so those lawyers or doctors would go on to use that extra energy to bend for longer house, and when they had a vacation they went off in search of themselves, spiraling deeper and deeper into the practice, becoming ever more capable humans, who could push their bodies into ever more drastic positions.”

It’s similar to the philosopher who devotes a life to the study of ethics while never lifting a finger to help another person, or the theologian who reads the scripture in one hand and turns away the beggar in the other.

And how lovely it is to judge others and think, “Well, that’s not me.” But most of us practice our version of self-immersion, perhaps in worlds other than yoga. For me, it’s writing and composing, record-shopping, listening to music, watching baseball, organizing photos, etc.

And when was the last time I volunteered? It’s been a year, a full five months past the deadline I’d set for myself to get started again.

Time to make a change, I know. Studies show time after time that one of the best ways to cure loneliness is to volunteer to help others, to engage with our fellow human beings. So why are we working so hard as a society to do anything but?

The Lure of Isolation

I recently spoke to a 47 year-old bachelor friend of mine who calculated that he’s lived alone for two straight decades, and as much as he’d one day like to have a lasting relationship, he’s not sure he’d ever be able to adapt to having to live with someone aside from his dog and one-eyed cat. Old habits die hard. Twenty year-old habits die harder. His idiosyncrasies and routines are ingrained.

Or so he thinks. I have another friend who didn’t get married until the ripe age of 60, so my bachelor buddy may be more capable of change than he gives himself credit for.

His calculation of years of solitude caused me to do a quick calculation of my own. Although I’ve spent countless hours alone, I have never actually lived alone. Not from the early years as the last addition to a family of five to the most recent years, when my own family of five shed a few from our humble abode. (The Sesame Street song – so anachronistic today for so many Americans – runs through my head from time to time: “I’ve got five people in my family, and there’s not one of them I’d swap…”) Sure, there were a few months in grad school when my roommate’s fixation on a new girlfriend resulted in a period of my coming home to an empty apartment, but he’d be back for days at a time, his name was still on the lease, and this was grad school, when every day and every evening was brimming with social activity. If anything, I was relieved to have a few moments to myself.

For me, solitude is one of two essential ingredients for creativity (the other is time), and during my formative high school years, I had it in spades as my two siblings ventured to college and my mother worked crazy nursing hours. It fed my creative pursuits and allowed me to understand who I am. It’s something I’ve gotten used to, and I’ve found it to be a blessing. As the Dr. Seuss book says, “Whether you like it or not, alone will be something you’ll be quite a lot.” It is, and I’m comfortable with it (I’m alone right now as I write this piece, and I couldn’t be happier). But I also recognized early on as an adult that my need for solitude is offset by my need for human interaction on a daily basis. If I don’t have both, I’m a wreck.  The human contact I experience doesn’t always have to be extensive or particularly meaningful – a nice talk with a dog-walker on the street might be sufficient – but it does have to be there. 

I’m currently reading Bruce Springsteen’s biography, Born to Run (review forthcoming), and he spends quite a few pages exploring his opposing desires for solitude and ample human contact. He writes that early in his role as a father, when one of his children released him from his attention, “I’d often breathe a sigh of relief and run back to my fortress of solitude, where as usual I felt at home, safe, until, like a bear in need of blood and meat, I’d wake from my hibernation and travel through the house for my drink from the cup of human love and companionship.” 

I’m of a similar makeup. Just as my bachelor friend can’t imagine living with someone, I can’t imagine living without someone. If circumstances relegated me to a period of time in an empty house, I believe I’d last about three days before experiencing a mental breakdown. And this leads me to think of my mother, who, when I left for college, lived alone for the first time in her life. She was forty-eight, the same age I am today. And I wonder if she was no more capable of handling that transition than I would be today. 

One of my favorite albums as a teenager, and one that still holds my attention today, is Pink Floyd’s The Wall. I didn’t really understand its themes when I devoured the record during middle school, but today I find it ironic how an album about how isolation results in mental decay was probably enjoyed most often by lonely guys in their bedroom. The lure of isolation, of comfort, control and safety, is ultimately a road to ruin. For a society that’s never been more connected, I believe we are becoming more and more isolated, resulting in the chaos that’s currently ensuing nationwide and globally. Nationalism and hatred breed out of isolation.

We best leave our shells behind, individually and collectively, or we’re all going to be in deep shit.

The Wall DVD: Waters Mucks it Up

I recently considered writing a review of Elvis Costello’s self-indulgent, smug and laborious book, Unfaithful Music & Disappearing Ink (a conclusion in stark contrast to that of The New York Times and other reviews), but decided not to dwell on a man who when I last saw him told the audience at the Chicago Theater to “fuck off,” thereby ending an era during which I shelled out good cash to finance his illustrious career.  He hasn’t made a dime off of me since. (I borrowed his book from the library.)

Then there’s Roger Waters, another self-indulgent musician, who just released the long-awaited DVD of The Wall, recorded on Waters’ worldwide tour that I completely missed and have been kicking myself for ever since.  I know Pink Floyd fans who think very little of The Wall, but for me it’s among the greatest achievements in rock history and it was a hugely important album for me when it came out in 1979.  So why didn’t I see the show?  I don’t know.  It was a weeknight, I didn’t know anyone who wanted to go, my wife was traveling and I had three kids at home.

In other words, I was being a lame, old suburbanite.

So it was with eager anticipation that I opened the DVD last night, turned off the lights, put on the headphones, leaned back and pressed play.  And look, it was good.  But @@leave it to the ever self-important Waters to muck up what could have been a terrific vicarious concert-going experience.@@

I knew that the film wasn’t only a concert and that it included scenes of Waters talking about his father who died in World War II.  That’s cool.  I get it.  But he didn’t just include these scenes at the beginning and ends of the film (or better yet, as a completely separate film), but rather interjected the scenes throughout the concert!  He’s not the first to commit this sin (Paul McCartney’s In Red Square, Joe Jackson’s 25th Anniversary Special), but interrupting the flow of concept album like The Wall completely detracts from the experience, akin to playing the album in shuffle mode.  It utterly misses the point.  Other bands have released remarkable concert DVDs that include a documentary in the extras, and that would have made much more sense for The Wall.  At the very least the menu should have given the viewer the option of watching the concert with or without the documentary footage. 

So, yes, I’m glad the DVD was released.  Yes, I teared up during various tunes.  Yes, I loved being able to finally witness the technological advances Waters added to the production since last performing the show in Berlin in 1990.  And yes, I even didn’t mind the highly staged scenes in which Waters visits the graves and/or memorials of his father and grandfather.  I just didn’t need to see them between songs during one of the most spectacular tours ever staged.

What a bummer.

Marking Time with Music

(note: this originally posted on www.planetback.com in 2008.  I've editted it for this posting)

Quick.  What’s the first thing that comes to mind when I mention the year 1979?  A birthday?  A graduation?  Your first kiss?  A song by the Smashing Pumpkins?  If you’re like me, and God help you if you are, your mental timeline is marked not so much by life’s personal milestones, but by album release dates.  It’s my way of attaining order in a random universe. 

Take the year 1975.  Springsteen’s Born To Run and Led Zeppelin’s Physical Graffiti come to mind, though I was only seven years old that year.  Age doesn’t really matter when it comes to marking time (at least it didn’t until I turned forty); I’ve retroactively pegged years from long before my birth.  1954?  Bill Haley’s “Rock Around The Clock” (not an album, per se, but you get the idea).  1967?  The Beatles’ St. Pepper and Hendrix’s Are You Experienced.  Of course, more recent years have the added benefit of intertwining personal experience with album release dates.  Peter Gabriel’s So and Paul Simon’s Graceland came out the year of my high school graduation, and Ben Folds Five and Alanis Morissette both debuted albums in 1995, the year I was married.

1979 stirs up memories of my very first album purchases.  I started boldly, with a live double album from Aerosmith, graduated to Supertramp’s Crime of the Century and Led Zeppelin’s In Through The Out Door, and finished off the year with Pink Floyd’s magnum opus, The Wall.  This was the album that had everybody talking.  Whatever side of the Floyd fence you fell on, there was no disputing The Wall’s significance. 

Memories of my family’s trip to Florida the following spring are inextricably linked to the unwavering play lists of rock stations from Milwaukee to Tampa: “All of My Love,” from Zeppelin, “The Devil Went Down To Georgia” by Charlie Daniels (with the phrase “son of a gun” replacing “son of a bitch” for radio play – oh the innocence!), and the ubiquitous “Another Brick In The Wall, Part 2.”  This is the Floyd song that features a disco beat and a children’s choir singing “We don’t need no education” (both moves a stroke of production genius).  It was an unmelodic piece, almost childish, but that didn’t stop me from buying the sheet music to expand by blossoming piano repertoire.  When I handed the music to my appalled piano teacher, Mrs. Trotier, she produced a sigh that could have signified the end of society, but to her credit, she helped me plod my way through the song, deciphering the complicated rhythms of David Gilmour’s transcribed guitar solo.

Meanwhile, schoolteachers from all around the country feared mutiny.  The lyrics to “Another Brick In The Wall, Part 2” clearly had appeal to any student with an ounce of deviance, but my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Middlestead, didn’t quite see it that way.  He decided to facilitate a class discussion on the topic, an admirable move except when considering his audience.  He copied the song’s lyrics on the chalkboard at the front of the classroom and asked the students to read along while the song played.  After pressing stop on the tape player, he asked, “What is it about this song that you find appealing?”

We offered nothing except shoulder shrugs and blank stares.  None of us really knew why we liked the song.  We just did.  It was on the radio, and it was sort of funny.  But no one was brave enough to say so.  Finally, after watching my teacher die a slow death in front of the classroom, something inside me – probably vanity – provoked me to speak up. 

“This song isn’t even as good as the other two.  Part 3 is way better.”  I was referring to an almost identical song with slightly different lyrics on the album’s second side. 

My teacher’s eyes widened.  “That’s what I’m trying to get at.  You think this is the worst of the three ‘Another Brick In The Wall’ songs, and yet this is the one that’s attracted so much attention.  Why?”

“I don’t know…but Part 3 is really cool.  It starts out with a guy smashing his TV!” 

I raised my hands to mimic the action, but halted when Mr. Middlestead placed a hand on his forehead.  Then, starting to sense my own death, I turned to my classmates for support and distinctly remember Jon Lewis giving me a look that he’d previously reserved for the class dork.  I had just doubled the number of dorks in our classroom and completely negated any crumb of respect I’d garnered from my classmates all year. 

Damn you, Roger Waters!

So what’s the upshot of all this?  Nothing really, except to say that while 1979 is a highlight in my mental timeline, and could be for almost any music fan, I don’t imagine today’s kids will look back at the year 2014 with the same fondness.  And that’s not just because I’m an old guy hankering for the old days; today’s kids are already wallowing in the past.  Look around and you’ll see teenagers wearing t-shirts with the logos from Zeppelin, Rush, The Who, Nivana and the Stones.  It reminds me of a conversation I had at a party back in 2008 when a familiar song began to play in the background. 

“Oh, I like this song,” a woman said.

“Yeah, Warren Zevon,” I said.

“Who’s Warren Zevon?”

“The guy who does this song.”

“No.  It’s someone else.  Kid somebody?”

“It’s Warren Zevon.”

And then a voice began singing an alternative melody right on top of Warren Zevon’s original classic!  So all 2008 had going for it was a hit by Kid Rock based on based on samples of two songs from long ago: Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama” from 1974 and Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London,” from 1978. 

Wallowing in the past.