Overdramatic Feelings of Isolation, the City I Live In, My Dog, and Rilke
To have outgrown a place does not mean that you feel bigger than you have, so in that way the expression is inadequate at best. You are aware, however, that the place itself has changed neither its size nor its shape, and thus it is you who is different; so, in this way, the expression must in some way be valid. But we all live with ourselves as our constant companions, and it is difficult for you to chart the ways in which you change. So you study the inhabitants of this strange old place, the buildings that surround you, the roads that lead towards and away from them, and you wonder...
You waste money on gasoline you cannot afford, finding succor nowhere. At night you drive slowly through the outskirts, watching cars with dark windows pass on either side of you, but you cannot imagine the people they must contain, for no longer is any soul here known to you. You go out of your way to take the highways, for it is on them you have had so many homecomings. You visit the old haunts, the places you went to meet friends and girls, meeting no one. In your mind these places are still populated by those who were once familiar, so you sit in them almost expectantly, examining every face that crosses the threshold. Mostly though they are empty, despite whatever number of bodies they admit. You think to yourself: no part of this place belongs to me any longer. But you are wrong.1
* * *
Though I live in a very flat, dull city comprised almost entirely of strip-malls, gas-stations, and economically-segregated suburbs, and though this city has next to no culture, nightlife, or other opportunities for amusement, there is one area -- an oasis within the city -- that I and a considerable number of my fellow residents have consistently gravitated towards. This area, called the Tower District for its proximity to the historic Tower Theater, is actually not a district but rather a street. The Tower District extends for the length of one city block on this particular street. It is surrounded on all sides by residential neighborhoods that, 30 years ago, housed the firmly middle-class, but which have since, it is largely thought by those who never come this far south of the railroad tracks, deteriorated into slums. In actuality, the area is experiencing a small renaissance, largely due to the recent successes of the Tower District. Within the confines of this small city block there is a flourish of everything missing from the rest of the city: a cinema (as opposed to a generic multiplex), a record shop, cafés, and a wealth of other idiosyncratic small businesses.
Reading Jane Jacobs' The Death and Life of Great American Cities has in many ways clarified why this rebirth was possible, and why I prefer the area for my social needs. Despite being an intensely private person, I am still a social being, and the Tower District is the only place in this city (that I know of) where one can be private and yet still socialize and be part of a community. Because of the bustling sidewalk life, the wide variety of people who frequent the area both as residents and visitors, and the high frequency of establishments such as bars, restaurants, coffee-shops, and stores which encourage this variety, one can interact with others without necessarily inviting them into one's own private social circle. One can also choose not to interact, precisely because the interaction is of a public as opposed to a private nature, and therefore not an assumption but rather an open invitation of sorts. This type of interaction is not encouraged by the strip malls, for example, because it is wholly visited as opposed to inhabited; there are no residents of the strip mall, so everyone is an anonymous visiting stranger as opposed to part of a community. On the other hand, this type of interaction is also not encouraged by the suburbs, because they are wholly inhabited as opposed to visited, which oddly enough is equally discouraging to a sense of community.
One particular coffee-shop -- the Revue -- has always drawn my business, particularly because of the ease with which its layout facilitates the gradient between public and private spheres. The tables and chairs in front of the store are the most public, because they are located directly on the sidewalk, and therefore make people-watching incredibly easy, but also expose their occupants to the most amount of public attention. Seats under the patio -- located against the side of the building and partially blocked-off by a shade-tree and some small fencing -- are the most coveted: they allow for people-watching from behind a screen, but are arranged in a circular pattern conducive for conversation between larger groups, and thus are always crowded, often by strangers meeting for the first time over a cigarette. The first room one enters, both from the sidewalk and the patio, is home to the cash register, and has many small tables which can be moved together or apart as necessary, but the high level of traffic by those simply buying and leaving means complete privacy in the area is rare. Last is the room in the back of the shop, where there are separated booths similar to restaurant dining, and which afford the highest level of insulation and privacy.
Though Jacobs has made clear the requirements necessary for this type of diverse, interesting, public community environment, what she has not yet explained is how one can foster and create those requirements. Admittedly I am only part-way through the book, so hopefully she will go into more depth about this later. I know that part of the issue is gentrification, which seems to me to have contributed greatly to the area, but perhaps I only think that because I'm white and benefiting at the expense of the poor. But from the perspective of Jacobs, for whom at this point suburbs seem like a blight that can go nowhere but downhill, there is little hope for the rest of my city.
* * *
Yesterday evening we saw that the family dog, Sparky, had thrown up on the cement in our backyard. This isn't particularly unusual; fairly often she eats grass that she cannot digest. Then, later, when I went outside to smoke a cigarette, she was weaving drunkenly, shaking from exhaustion, and could barely walk five feet to me without falling. It was absolutely terrifying, and when she collapsed and could hardly get up, I kept thinking she was about to die. We rushed her to an emergency vet who told us she had idiopathic vestibular disease.
From VeterinaryHelp.net: "Signs seen with this disease are consistent with those expected in other peripheral vestibular diseases - peripheral meaning not involving the brain but the vestibulocochlear nerve in the ear. Patients may be unable to stand, fall to one side, tilt the head to one side or have an abnormal flicking of the eyes called nystagmus."
Apparently symptoms can resolve themselves in as quickly as a few days or as slowly as a week. The important part, however, is that they will subside. The vet kept her over last night, as she had to be given food and water intravenously, being too nauseous to eat or drink. She came home this evening, though, once the "nystagmus" let up, but she still can barely walk.
* * *
I recently read a story in The Architecture of Happiness by Alain de Botton about Freud and Rilke walking through a lush garden. Freud was overjoyed that the sun was shining, the summer rains had finally let up, and the flowers were in full bloom. Rilke, however, was quiet and despondent, for he was unable to forget, as Freud put it, "that all this beauty was fated to extinction, that it would vanish when winter came, like all human beauty and all the beauty that men have created or may create." Sometimes it is difficult to remain optimistic in the face of such certain loss.
1 Unfinished entry from paper journal, dating to sometime mid-January
You waste money on gasoline you cannot afford, finding succor nowhere. At night you drive slowly through the outskirts, watching cars with dark windows pass on either side of you, but you cannot imagine the people they must contain, for no longer is any soul here known to you. You go out of your way to take the highways, for it is on them you have had so many homecomings. You visit the old haunts, the places you went to meet friends and girls, meeting no one. In your mind these places are still populated by those who were once familiar, so you sit in them almost expectantly, examining every face that crosses the threshold. Mostly though they are empty, despite whatever number of bodies they admit. You think to yourself: no part of this place belongs to me any longer. But you are wrong.1
* * *
Though I live in a very flat, dull city comprised almost entirely of strip-malls, gas-stations, and economically-segregated suburbs, and though this city has next to no culture, nightlife, or other opportunities for amusement, there is one area -- an oasis within the city -- that I and a considerable number of my fellow residents have consistently gravitated towards. This area, called the Tower District for its proximity to the historic Tower Theater, is actually not a district but rather a street. The Tower District extends for the length of one city block on this particular street. It is surrounded on all sides by residential neighborhoods that, 30 years ago, housed the firmly middle-class, but which have since, it is largely thought by those who never come this far south of the railroad tracks, deteriorated into slums. In actuality, the area is experiencing a small renaissance, largely due to the recent successes of the Tower District. Within the confines of this small city block there is a flourish of everything missing from the rest of the city: a cinema (as opposed to a generic multiplex), a record shop, cafés, and a wealth of other idiosyncratic small businesses.
Reading Jane Jacobs' The Death and Life of Great American Cities has in many ways clarified why this rebirth was possible, and why I prefer the area for my social needs. Despite being an intensely private person, I am still a social being, and the Tower District is the only place in this city (that I know of) where one can be private and yet still socialize and be part of a community. Because of the bustling sidewalk life, the wide variety of people who frequent the area both as residents and visitors, and the high frequency of establishments such as bars, restaurants, coffee-shops, and stores which encourage this variety, one can interact with others without necessarily inviting them into one's own private social circle. One can also choose not to interact, precisely because the interaction is of a public as opposed to a private nature, and therefore not an assumption but rather an open invitation of sorts. This type of interaction is not encouraged by the strip malls, for example, because it is wholly visited as opposed to inhabited; there are no residents of the strip mall, so everyone is an anonymous visiting stranger as opposed to part of a community. On the other hand, this type of interaction is also not encouraged by the suburbs, because they are wholly inhabited as opposed to visited, which oddly enough is equally discouraging to a sense of community.
One particular coffee-shop -- the Revue -- has always drawn my business, particularly because of the ease with which its layout facilitates the gradient between public and private spheres. The tables and chairs in front of the store are the most public, because they are located directly on the sidewalk, and therefore make people-watching incredibly easy, but also expose their occupants to the most amount of public attention. Seats under the patio -- located against the side of the building and partially blocked-off by a shade-tree and some small fencing -- are the most coveted: they allow for people-watching from behind a screen, but are arranged in a circular pattern conducive for conversation between larger groups, and thus are always crowded, often by strangers meeting for the first time over a cigarette. The first room one enters, both from the sidewalk and the patio, is home to the cash register, and has many small tables which can be moved together or apart as necessary, but the high level of traffic by those simply buying and leaving means complete privacy in the area is rare. Last is the room in the back of the shop, where there are separated booths similar to restaurant dining, and which afford the highest level of insulation and privacy.
Though Jacobs has made clear the requirements necessary for this type of diverse, interesting, public community environment, what she has not yet explained is how one can foster and create those requirements. Admittedly I am only part-way through the book, so hopefully she will go into more depth about this later. I know that part of the issue is gentrification, which seems to me to have contributed greatly to the area, but perhaps I only think that because I'm white and benefiting at the expense of the poor. But from the perspective of Jacobs, for whom at this point suburbs seem like a blight that can go nowhere but downhill, there is little hope for the rest of my city.
* * *
Yesterday evening we saw that the family dog, Sparky, had thrown up on the cement in our backyard. This isn't particularly unusual; fairly often she eats grass that she cannot digest. Then, later, when I went outside to smoke a cigarette, she was weaving drunkenly, shaking from exhaustion, and could barely walk five feet to me without falling. It was absolutely terrifying, and when she collapsed and could hardly get up, I kept thinking she was about to die. We rushed her to an emergency vet who told us she had idiopathic vestibular disease.
From VeterinaryHelp.net: "Signs seen with this disease are consistent with those expected in other peripheral vestibular diseases - peripheral meaning not involving the brain but the vestibulocochlear nerve in the ear. Patients may be unable to stand, fall to one side, tilt the head to one side or have an abnormal flicking of the eyes called nystagmus."
Apparently symptoms can resolve themselves in as quickly as a few days or as slowly as a week. The important part, however, is that they will subside. The vet kept her over last night, as she had to be given food and water intravenously, being too nauseous to eat or drink. She came home this evening, though, once the "nystagmus" let up, but she still can barely walk.
* * *
I recently read a story in The Architecture of Happiness by Alain de Botton about Freud and Rilke walking through a lush garden. Freud was overjoyed that the sun was shining, the summer rains had finally let up, and the flowers were in full bloom. Rilke, however, was quiet and despondent, for he was unable to forget, as Freud put it, "that all this beauty was fated to extinction, that it would vanish when winter came, like all human beauty and all the beauty that men have created or may create." Sometimes it is difficult to remain optimistic in the face of such certain loss.
1 Unfinished entry from paper journal, dating to sometime mid-January