Tilting the Void

Modern humanity is becoming increasingly isolated, so those who say such things are fond of saying; more and more, we're separated from face-to-face interaction by television, telephone and email, shut off from real experience by video games and iPod earbuds, and it's all to our detriment, apparently. This is a first-world problem, especially where I live in the extreme of the West, where we're more inclined to drive our own cars over vast distances than cram together on public transport. At restaurants, we seldom if ever dream of sharing our tables with complete strangers, and in the evenings, we're more often than not found in our private living-rooms parked in front of a glowing TV or computer screen. All this separateness, this lack of community, is set to be the death of modern society (so we're often told); we ought to get out, interact with humanity and all that--which, to a point, is a healthy way to look at things, as long as it's a choice and not a requirement.

It's interesting that, given the chance, we humans do our damnedest to get away from each other. It's all well and good to reminisce about sock hops and the corner store, but why then are we more liable to buy online when the opportunity arises? It's easier, true, but you still have to wait to receive the package; it lacks the instant gratification of a physical purchase at a bricks-and-mortar. I think one of the benefits to shopping online is the initiative; you don't have to depend on a sales clerk, for one thing, and you don't have to deal with some overweight, flatulent gawker dawdling in your line of sight, hogging up all the sales.

Much has been said about the benefit of living a more communal life--and to some level, I'd agree. I need my fix of group outings and parties and gatherings as much as anyone else, I suppose, though I'm happiest when in the company of just a few of my close friends as opposed to a vast and heaving throng. For the most part, though, I'd have to argue--I think public transit is dreary at the best of times, horrific at the worst. I don't think getting herded onto a shiny aluminum death tube to spend four-to-six hours in the air jammed in a seat built for one of the Seven Dwarfs (I'm not short) with my elbows stuckinto the soft, collapsing side of a snoring, sprawling teenager qualifies for anything other than heinous torture. This is to say nothing of the bus, where people sit tensely trying not to make eye contact or brush each other's clothing (when they're not reeling drunkenly or talking to themselves). Public restrooms are vastly improved over what they apparently were in ancient Rome, where judging by the spacing of the holes, everyone had a chance to chat and be extremely social over their morning constitutionals. People might choose to have their infants sleep in their beds with them, but our houses normally come with more than one room now, as opposed to the medieval hovel where everyone and the family goat slept together in the same room on the same stinking, rush-strewn floor. With each new era of civilization, humankind (at least in the west, all I've any experience with) has found ways of escape, means to separate oneself from the steaming froth of the rest of humanity.

I have yet to find this a bad thing.

As in everything else, moderation is the key; I certainly don't want to wall myself up in my house and never speak to another living being again (yet), but there are definitely times when I'd just as soon be snug at home with a book on my lap and the radio playing some soft jazz down low. If I'm in need of company, I can get on the phone or keyboard and get in touch with one of my friends, or if that's not working, I can go (shudder) to the mall and watch the vast human horde in all its dubious splendor. I like having that choice, just as I like choosing whether or not I should ride the bus or stand on a train platform or squeeze through the cattle chutes down at the international airport. Viewing a film at a packed theater can sometimes be magical and exhilarating--and sometimes, it just plain sucks. There are times I'd like to be the sort of person who could, in one motion, shove a cell-phone abuser's item of offense through their ear-hole. Can you hear me now?

Perhaps it's a product of not seeing an honest-to-goodness rock concert until I was in my mid-twenties. My husband and I won two tickets to see The Presidents of the United States play at the Kingdome (when that blighted edifice was still standing). This was exciting; we got to go stand down on the Astroturf floor and bounce around in a huge, sweaty mass and get our ears blasted. Unfortunately, I'd never heard of a mosh pit before. You don't get much more immediate and authentic face-to-face interaction with your fellow humans than when one or three half naked, copiously sweating young men drag their dripping wet, pallid chests across your unguarded face. And that wasn't even as pleasant as you might be first led to think.

So, at the risk of sounding curmudgeonly, here's to the isolation of technology and the solitude of the modern soul; it allows us to feel warmly toward each other, rather than longing to destroy the next person who steps on your foot in a dark, packed theater. Absence does makes the heart grow fonder, or so I've heard.