In my last post, I used the phrase, “I don’t mean to sound so reductive.” It clearly expressed what I intended at the time: that I had made a statement which could easily be interpreted as being narrow-minded or dismissive, but that this was not my intention—rather, I was attempting to identify a broad-stroke approach towards a very nuanced subject (mental health).
I begin in this fashion, not because I’ve received any kind of negative feedback or expressions of offense or anything of the sort, but because—for whatever reason—the concept of reductionism (which I was going to write about today—but this post somehow became mostly about language, so maybe I’ll return to this idea another time) has been pinging around in my mind ever since I wrote that post. This further led to the generalization of the remarkable intricacies of language. I understand that this is quickly evolving into a woefully over-reaching topic for a blog post… but, like I said before, this blog is going to be mostly in service to myself—and I, for one, had the economic foresight of majoring in philosophy, so here we are.
If you have any sort of latent fixation regarding the linguistic constraints of living in a temporal reality, feel free to read on.
I like to think of language as a microscope. The necessary components of survival can and have long been met without it—but with its inclusion, we have been able to more closely examine, understand, and express what were previously regarded as being elementary and uncomplicated aspects of our lives. With the microscope, we can better identify diseases and surmise their cures. The same goes for language, and dis-ease.
Before language, things such as “I am hungry” and “I am having a child” could be relatively easily communicated and understood. However, a vast number of things had to go without being expressed. Language enables us to explore and express notions such as “I am feeling insecure about how my body looks,” (not that this was likely a common emotional experience before the evolution of language—much less the media) and “I am looking forward to an occurrence that is yet to come”—which would otherwise be difficult to express (via body language, signaling, etc.).
[Sidenote on “melancholy”: I just started re-watching ER last night, and in one of the first couple episodes a young George Clooney confronts the mother of a battered infant. Even though the show was clearly portraying a manufactured depiction of a battered infant—make-up bruises and glued-on burns and the like—seeing this, as a mother, made my stomach turn. Today, I stayed home with my youngest and blamed in on the snow. But honestly, a big part of me wanting to stay home with her today was that I felt a visceral need to, I don’t know, rectify the reality that there are infants out there who do not receive the love they need from their parents. I’m not even PMSing this week, this is just how I generally operate: I assume a strange personal responsibility for external goings-on—be them fictional or half a world away—and seek their microcosmic redress. I do not believe I am alone in this sort of emotional response. I see many people responding to worldwide tragedy and misfortune in a similar fashion—parents who sneak into bed with their kiddos after watching news coverage of a school shooting, persons of privileged upbringing joining the Peace Corps, etc.—and in fact, I believe that a vast number of charitable organizations employ marketing techniques which depend on this human response. Anyway, the point here is that George Clooney is timeless, as is ennui.]
Without language (to the degree that we know it today), we would never be able to infer an experience such as: “What you did just there reminded me of something my mother used to do when I was a child, and it is making me angry, because it makes me feel helpless.” Language solves conflicts. But it also starts them. Has the vastness of our language system given rise to emotions which wouldn’t have otherwise occurred? The chicken and the egg: language vs. emotions. Perhaps these evolutions are an example of a mutual symbiosis—the more the one developed, the more, in turn, did the other. We’ve all had the experience of coming across a word that perfectly describes an emotion which we had experienced but didn’t have the adequate verbage for at the time—so I am inclined to surmise that unacknowledged emotions were always there, they were just in need of names. It is possible that these yet-to-be-named emotional experiences were given less energy and consideration because we were not well-acquainted with them—like strangers in a restaurant, as opposed those you are dining with—but they were there nonetheless. We just didn’t have the drive or capacity to pay them any mind before we were properly introduced.
Just how much more simple was the breadth of the human emotional experience before the evolution of language? I like to imagine life without language. It might seem strange, given that I self-identify as a writer—but I like to think that this is a common thought pattern, one which might run in the same vein as a priest thinking about what life would be like without the spirit. It’s a strange but necessary mental game of sorts that I think helps people reckon with a not-necessarily-necessary aspect of humanity which so greatly defines their lives. I also love games like charades, which on a lighter note reminds us of the limitless capacities of language. They temporarily force us to exercise alternate methods of communication, which metaphorically tickles, in a way. This is probably why it’s such a fun(ny) game to play: we are instantly and unequivocally disabled—which humans, as a general rule, deeply enjoy from time to time.
Considering an existence without language feels sort of like giving myself a mental re-alignment… for me, it’s an automatic exercise, like when we have intrusive thoughts about someone close to us dying: our subconscious puts forth an independent effort at refreshing our priorities. Thus, even in psychoneurology, gratitude is a needed component of survival.
[Sidenote on gratitude: I think that a lot of us harbor an understanding of gratitude that is a little skewed—we think of gratitude as a forced experience, something which requires effort. However, gratitude arises primarily from an entirely organic experience—it can be recognized in the innate emotional response to finding water when you are thirsty. Gratitude is not necessarily a numbered to-do list. It is as natural and innate as anger or tiredness. It is what our brains do when we recognize the existence of something or someone we enjoy or the having of something we need or want. The active aspect of gratitude is simply making an effort to take note of its arrivals, so we can look back at this ledger and propagate further gratitude. I use the word propagate intentionally, because gratitude is like houseplants: life can only improve with its increase—also, it can be bred.]
Returning to the idea of simplified existence via the absence of language: for years, I have been making undated plans to visit a hermitage and stay there for a number of days. I have lurid fantasies surrounding silence. When I lived on my own for several years, I believe that my ability to go hours or even days without speaking fostered an inclination towards a strange sort of depersonalization. I was able to dis-engage, because I wasn’t prompted to vocalize. I long for silence now during times when I am feeling the most emotional—I know this is a shared experience. Perhaps, then, we all have some sort of subconscious association between language and emotion. People who are struggling with depression are often characterized as isolating, as not readily speaking of their experiences—I think that this is an autonomic response to emotional suffering, like a dog hiding under a porch when it is dying: we all somehow trick ourselves into thinking that if we don’t talk about something, that it isn’t real. And, in a way, it does seem to fall away for a bit. I am here inclined to question the importance of talking about feelings—when, in reality, I am deeply aware of its necessity and benefit.
I do however believe that silence, too, is a type of coping mechanism. I don’t think that we do anyone any favors by forcing them to talk about a painful experience which they are not yet ready to process. We need to allow people to let their trauma decompose a bit before they attempt to digest it, if that is what they need.
A therapeutic sort of un-acknowledgement—is it denial? Maybe. By another name and with different motive. Which returns me to my original thoughts on reduction: concepts, personalities, and emotional experiences are all like Hoberman spheres. The plastic frame is like language. We can stretch and expand these things (concepts, personalities, emotional experiences) and make them bigger than ourselves—or we can consolidate them to fit in our hands. They are always the same thing, no matter their status. These things (concepts, personalities, emotional experiences) can be whole and complete no matter the expanse of their linguistic exploration.
Macrocosmic, microcosmic… reductive, expansive… these are all just different avenues of definition and perception of any given phenomena. Basically, we can make something simple, or we can make it difficult. However, we must first de-ascribe the value judgments of “simple” and “difficult” to accurately apply this approach: one is no better than the other. We can take absolutely anything—an apple, an academic concept, a feeling, a scene from ER—and apply it in a vast number of ways to suit whatever it is we are trying to illustrate or relate to. An apple is like the universe, and it is also like infancy: we can make similes of any combination of nouns, I believe, and macrocosmic/microcosmic, reductive/expansive approaches can validate them. Everything can be both heavy and light, it just depends on how we frame it.
This, I think, is what is awesome about language—it is like Hesse’s glass bead game, it can allow us to make connections between any and everything. Emotion is a close accomplice of language: we can also relate any limitless number of emotions and experiences. Language and emotion are thus like puzzle games in which every piece fits in every position. And that, I think, is pretty cool.
So, this ended up becoming incredibly thick. But that’s okay I suppose. I have no conclusion for this, except: pay more and less mind to how you speak and what you feel. This statement is both ironic and accurate. Give more energy to what benefits you, and less to what doesn’t. (Unless of course you are trying to use pain as a type of fuel to propel a creative endeavor, which is vaguely necessary, just try not to get lost in your blue period.) This is the underlying notion of the present manifestation / mind-over-matter movement, from what I can understand, and I must concede to its validity.
Anyway. Happy Monday. If you have any thoughts or feedback or any interesting points to add or discuss, feel free to leave a comment! I miss my epistemology class. Occasionally.