In June, New York City comes alive with its sounds, scents, and the semi-sensual spirit of the young people raising from a deep spring slumber, ready to conquer the proverbial dragons that gatekeep the route to summer fun.
After so long abroad, I definitely missed these trademark feelings. A desire for familiarity propelled me forward as I first stepped onto the uneven asphalt leading into my first NYC metro ride. The narrow steps mirror a pathway into a mysterious metropolitan labyrinth, packed with the frantic movement of the urban goblins hobbling to their next big stop. Newness despite normality.
As the nostalgia continuously gushes its way into my veins like an erratic garden hose, I can't help but notice one particular, familiar feeling: aloneness. A feeling I've grown to relish, a feeling that has supercharged my capacity for introspection, a feeling that has oscillated with its close cousin loneliness.
From the outside looking in, this shouldn't be a shocking observation. NYC is known for being hugely individualistic, a transient city that beckons with its holy persuasive power. It offers boundless opportunities to the brave warriors who are willing to make certain sacrifices — attention, time, money, life energy. But the thing that's surprised me the most is how difficult the adjustment from my nomadic life has been. After all, I've been wandering happily in solitude for almost a year, so shouldn't this next chapter feel like a game on easy mode?
The sobering idea that warrants repeating is that nothing will save me except me. No city. No career. No friendship. No substance. No romantic date. Holding any too tightly, especially the dream of an ideal, will likely result in my self-destruction. The difference between ecstasy and insanity is marginal — the former kicks in like a temporary runner's high while the latter attaches to you like a malignant tumor. Living in NYC feels good, but to what extent I am deluding myself to believe this is the only & best option for this next phase?
To love is to return. I look outwardly for a glimmer of companionship. I don't belong, yet. Aloneness is the default, internalized and codified.
It hasn't taken me too long to realize the important fact that will dictate the trajectory of these next months: start working hard, for my good life, for my survival. Dramatic, I know (aren't I always?) — I might have underrated what operating from ground zero (in every literal sense) means, as safety and security teeter in the balance, attacked by entropic ghosts from every corner. Yes, everything will be okay and work out in the end. But the colours of the micro (days) look drastically different from the macro (years); my inner moods morph and shapeshift at the whim of a randomly-programmed pendulum. Oh well — as the leaves sway in the wind, so will I.
I've curated three recent experiences that help bookmark my mental state throughout this new beginning. The conception of my first-person short story collection, if you will. Internalized aloneness in action!
. . .
A few days ago I went back to my favourite modern museum in Brooklyn, aptly named the Museum of Future Experiences (MoFE). Their new soundscape-infused, VR-driven show Gnosis has one simple premise: to explore the timeless question “Who am I?" What a perfect, almost poetic way to kickoff my grand reset in this city. Here's a quick summary:
The show starts with an immersive soundscape that grounds my consciousness in the present. I'm told to imagine a big luscious forest, full of life, coupled with a calming stream from a nearby riverbank. Glimpses of countryside Spain and mainland Lebanon zoom past my psychic plane. After meditating a bit on the essence of what makes up our identity, I see a clearing in the forest where the branches and trunks shrink away. Oh wow — a beautiful meadow with white flowers and an expanse of glowing grass. The prominent figure: a giant gold temple firmly staunched in the middle. The atmosphere darkens, and the wolves of the mind come out on guard under the heavy air. I stand firm against the monsters. Everything dissipates. The temple door swings open. Darkness. Singing. Brightness. Darkness again. I get sucked in completely, hurtled into the VR journey where I venture across various dimensions and am guided by a faceless shaman with a smooth voice.
Very trippy stuff but that's why I'm so drawn to experiences like this. Almost like induced psychedelics, just with technology. Along with the VR show, this time MoFE introduced a personalized element to reaffirm the premise of re-discovering yourself. Based on a quick survey I filled out before the show, I received a custom card with a word on it:
Monad /ˈmōˌnad/ a single unit; the number one
- [Philosophy] an indivisible and hence ultimately simple entity, such as an atom or a person.- [Biology] a single-celled organism, especially a flagellate protozoan, or a single cell.- [Engineering] software design pattern with a structure that combines program fragments (functions) and wraps their return values in a type with additional computation
As we see, the domains diverge from their exact interpretations, but ultimately converge onto a coherent classification. Is it any coincidence that monad is almost syntactically and phonetically identical to the word “nomad” — the descriptor intertwined with my destiny over time. I'm a nomad, just trying to wander and wonder my way across this big wide world.
The card ends by giving me an experiment proposal. "Practice seeing the connection between all things. Take a walk. Notice all the plants and animals you encounter. Greet them. Call each by your name." These actions are subtle and simple, yet deeply profound. Then, the next step in identity evolution is by intimately engaging in the elements of the world and uncovering hidden patterns.
“Do you remember where you came from? The conscious mind forgets what the heart has always known. Listen to it beating. There is no distinction between the self and the sublime."
. . .
"Why am I even here? Is it for nostalgic novelty? Is it kind of weird perverse internal theatrics? Is it a lustful thirst? Well, I guess it's time to dance!"
I find myself at Maru at exactly 10:52 pm in the heart of K-Town, one of the most notorious clubs for party-hard Asians. It's a staple of the early-20s nightlife scene for those who want to splurge on average-quality, high-price cocktails, and shimmy to an eclectic mix of Top 40 hits and head-bopping EDM. Wait, why am I here again?
In colourful vocabularies I referenced an exhibition by low-key artist Riccardo Benassi in Rome called dancefloorensic. Just as Benassi took a philosophical and artistic magnifying glass to what a dance floor means in the digital age, so will I take a surgical examination into a messy, casual entertainment space.
Riding solo in the club will never fail to be both an in-body and out-of-body experience. While I default to the dance floor in an “in-body” kind of way, I also have no person or group to lean on. Sober Sam still retains analytical processing power. I become a deep observer, darting my eyes through the contained space to pick up on psychological cues and the drunk reactionary behaviour of club-goers. So there's some second-guessing that creeps up when the dance floor is empty — should I go in? Should I wait? Should I hit someone up? It's always about how to manage expectations too — once the dance floor gets bumping with the ideal gender ratio (lol), then realistically there is a cap on the downside of dancing your heart away. Having a good time is the ultimate North Star, not trying to get with someone often results in a guy's tragic downfall. While dubious in some cases, I think the law of attraction applies perfectly on the dance floor: the more positive kinetic energy you put out there, the more outcomes are magnetized towards you.
It's exactly this level of consciousness and thoughtfulness that dissuades me from going to The Club much nowadays. I love dancing, but as the kids say, you can miss me with those sus vibes. My sentiments might change if I go with other people though. Maybe I need to start taking ecstasy or something (kidding!)
. . .
Everything Everywhere All At Once. My new favourite movie of all time. A deeply personal, weird, and eccentric movie. It easily deserves this title because there has not been a single time where I've felt every range of emotion in a movie theatre. There were multiple scenes where the tears just started to roll, scenes where I was enthralled by the action, scenes that injected strong doses of humour, and scenes where I felt fear and despair. Thematically, I got the movie, and at some weird abstract level, I felt like the movie got me too.
One of my favourite newsletter writers (Sasha Chapin) explains the impossibility of replicating such a countercultural weird success:
"But there will be nothing like that movie. No contrived attempt to generate something that riotously bizarre will work out. It’ll just be some hashed-up bullshit, with the kind of profundity/silliness feedback loop that EEAAO relies on, but without the deep structures of individual artistry that made it work in my new favorite movie. It’ll probably be totally awful."
I can't help but equate Sasha's point with the motions of life — for every failure you have, there are an infinitesimal number of future scenarios that spawn more fractals and nodes of possibility. There will be nothing like this very moment. Nothing. So as the film directs us: we either go into the mode of hopeless apathy, or we choose kindness and continue driving into the unknown horizon.
. . .
Here's to adventuring with aloneness, and figuring out the rest of this year with minimal stress. Hopefully :)
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