The Strangeness of the World
Why does any of this stuff matter
I’ve been writing about an idea that’s connected to phenomenology of perception and the relationship between the self and the world, which is that the “I” doesn’t exist, but is “a value rather than an existence.”1
Think with me for a moment about what these things are. Values are relational. Meaning and meaning-making, these things are relational. So the relational realities—the “I” is a relational reality, music is a relational reality, meaning is a relational reality. These are not objects, and they’re also not mere ideas, but live in between, they are really things that are felt, like through an invisible kind of perception. And perception itself is a relationship to the world, and is to ultimately realize that the self and the world are not separate. But that is such a huge idea that we aren’t going to do it justice here. This is not an essay per se but a shaped collection of ideas around this topic of why any of this stuff matters in the first place.
Why does music even matter anyway? Why do I keep coming back to it? It’s just patterns. They feel good, and feel important to us because of society, because of culture, our early experiences. Big deal? It’s just a beautiful experience. Really what I’m asking here is why are things valuable? What is the source of value if not the life of the meaning maker? The universe will freeze over one day, we’re all gonna die. But isn’t that last part the source of meaning? So how does one become a meaning maker? By doing stuff. Making things, acting, doing in the world. Engaging, activating, responding, having response-ability. This is a philosophical stance. A decision to say “I will act to make meaning.” I will choose to make meaning. This kind of stance is life saving. Frankl said that one could survive by having a why. Holding. Choosing. Standing. One lives by choosing to hold your reason to exist in the face of the world.
The body, our incredible machine, manufactures meaning as it simply responds to its environment. All one has to do is be in the world and let your body respond—what does it want, desire, need to create, nurture, and be with? Said another way, our body, the meaning-maker, exists as a part of the world in a relationship with it. This brings me back to the oneness between the self and the world. “I” am inside my body, which is a part of the one world. The body is the world and the world is telling us to act—the compulsion to respond to all of this is woven in. The reason meaning matters is because we inhabit a world where we must act.
So which is it? Is it holding or is it being? That’s an interesting question. Is meaning-making passive or active? Does it happen automatically or is it a choice? Does it come from us or from the world? I think when it’s put that way it’s clear it doesn’t just happen. The truth is: it’s an act. Or, we have to think it’s an act. We are physically set up to make meaning, then meaning-making becomes an act itself when it’s the hard choice. When it’s about survival. I felt myself, having been mystified by the aesthetics—the ways of feeling, textures, models of feeling—of eastern religions—nonattachment, nonaction, meditation, and the power of mind over the world in its creation, tempted to say that meaning itself is passive. That it’s something the meditator does just by sitting. And on some level that view is right, meaning is passively woven into how we build perception of the world. But I also felt compelled to say that it is an act, a spiritual act, because that feels more powerful to me. Meaning is actively something we create. The meditator brings a very active mindset/attitude.
Maybe it’s something like, meaning is actively something we must create to continue to live, and the task falls to us. (I think Frankl might agree…) And I make meaning from this posture, this attitude toward others. Is optimism a spiritual act? Whatever we think our individual mind is comes from our body and is itself a part of the world (perception is a relation of the two). Meaning arises out of a relationship, and one makes meaning by acting to sustain that relationship.
We, you and I, are not separate. This is what Merleau-Ponty meant when he said that the “I” has “a value rather than an existence.” Yes we all have individual bodies but we all create one world through the act of perception. He writes:
“The world is precisely the one that we represent to ourselves […] insofar as we are all one single light and insofar as we all participate in the one without dividing it.”2
Why did this quote mean something to me? We are not separate. This quote meant something to me because it sincerely reveals a reality that is magical at its core. Magic is the thing I’m after. Deeply. Terrence McKenna echoes in my mind as I hear him say, “Matter is magic.” I want to prove, through music, philosophy, science—I seem to be possessed by this idea—that the world is more than it seems, and that the world is illusory, that the world is something more than what it says it is, and I have to know. I remember that night walking on dewey grass under the moonlight when my pupils were wide and when the moonlight poured into my open pupils like milk flowing over, beyond the edge into something deep. I could smell the humor of the world. I looked at the light source and saw the moon wink at me, knowing that I finally knew its secret, in part, but not in full. I knew it could talk but that it doesn’t. I’m not sure what kind of proof I’m looking for, but this work—essaying, poetry, music—is the only language I have to reach over and ask you, Did you see that too?
The world is strange and the artist is the one who senses its strangeness. Truly strange—why? We don’t really know what we are. Physical beings? Souls? No idea what either is. Right when you think of someone, they call. What are the chances of that? Or my favorite. I’m walking, humming a tune, rubato and everything, and right on the last note the truck down the block blares a horn at exactly the pitch I was singing. This happens to me all the time. Coincidence you say. Imagine if I only believed each time that it was a coincidence.
That’s why I’ve always felt more at home with poets. The people who explain things away and put it into nice boxes, I’m always suspicious of—Who cut you off from your own felt mystery? Was it dad who was the one who had no time for nonsense, or was it mom who was the straight shooter? How about your brother who laughed every time you got something wrong so you had to be right all the time to protect yourself and your dignity? Nonsense. I suppose the weak don’t survive, and you’re weak when you’re off daydreaming. Having sense is to be sober enough to see what you can build and measure and account for, right? Having sense is to believe the world is not strange, or that the strangeness of the world is manageable. Perhaps it’s to believe that any strangeness should be denied entry.
Or maybe, having sense is to miss out on the fullness of everything that we are presented with. To think that the solution is always practical and never magical feels to me like purposefully ghosting on a date with someone you’re into and ignoring an entire dimension of who you could be: odd, asymmetric, selfless, true. A poet is one who continues to acknowledge their yearnings.
To deny the strangeness of life is to cut off the part of ourselves that makes and sustains meaning, music, story, myth, yearning, and prayer.
Walking past the bookshelf at Axinn, I read the sign that said “Hofstra Authors” above a row of books and glanced at the linen-stitched binding. The title caught my eye. Walking Light by Stephen Dunn. I picked it up and found that this was a poet writing essays and thought, ah, something feels personal about this. I’m a composer and I’m trying to write essays about the musical in hopes that I can connect the dots between art and the broader human experience. I feel so cringe at times, but reading Dunn’s writing, I felt at home in his questions, thinking his writing was so magnificent I couldn’t put the book down. His words felt so crafted, so natural, effortless, the writing made the book feel good to hold.
The first essay in Dunn’s collection, Stepping Out, was thoughtful, personal, political, surprising, inspirational—the last part, having an important practical element to it: to inspire the reader, in his case his poetry students, which made it shine for me. Dunn weaves poems into his essays with the spirit of sharing, which is how I’ve started thinking about my musical analyses. I wish to take a page from his book literally and figuratively to discover more about what he’s doing to make his writing flow as he weaves in the other arts—poems—into his verbiage. Ultimately the message is:
Your own character’s attitude to live and remain here is the most important choice you can possibly make.
Your art gives us perspectives on beauty—feed us.
The highest thing you can do for someone is speak to the vision and hope of being alive.
That’s it for now, poets. If I can offer a reflection: what sustains you? In these times when the going is grim and the whole point gets lost, how do you come back home and make things make sense again? Are there practices you stand by? If so, please share them. The world is hungry for light.
Quoted from the Preface to Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s Phenomenology of Perception.
Same as above.