Going Solo

New York Magazine's most recent cover story was on the subject of loneliness. They included some photographs, and since my latest post was to be on this same topic, I thought I'd point to their well-done article and include some of my own shots on the subject.


I find that New York can indeed be a most lonely place if you let it. The very fact of eight and half million people within an hour's travel by body-packed mass transit presents the mind with a seemingly unassailable wall of humanity impossible to ever fully know, let alone become acquainted with. With so many possible assignations, how does one even begin to form their own tiny island in such a vast ocean? And yet people do. Some are lucky in this regard - they are, consciously, or just as often unconsciously, social loci, meeting points for social networks. Somehow, everyone knows them and they know everyone. And even when they don't know someone, chances are good that they're never too many degrees away from knowing them.


I have a friend who I think may be like this. She's young and enthusiastically into the art and indie music scene in New York, and thanks to her tireless energies when it comes to attending shows and parties and openings, as well as keeping up with Internet chat conversations, email chains, and for all I know, meaningful relationships via carrier pigeon, can lay reasonable claim to knowing just about anyone you could encounter within that small but vital universe. Conversations with her often include amusing things like this: "Oh, (insert band/artist/creative type's name here) - I've known those kids for years. They're geniuses. My (best friend/former roommate/professional colleague/ex) did their (publicity/album art/mixing/flap copy) on their last (creative product). I think they're having a (show/opening/release party/happening) this weekend that I'm supposed to be at, but I dunno if I'll make it cause it's (friend's birthday/reunion dinner/long-established social tradition within personal universe) tonight and if I miss it (...) will fucking KILL me." Essentially her speech in these instances is a vast game of Mad Libs, and we're all of us possible words. The point is that this friend of mine is rarely if ever, in the traditional sense of the word, "lonely", because she's spent her entire life actively building a support network that, though it may not fully be aware of it, centers around her. It's damned impressive.





We aren't all able to do this. It takes time, effort, and no small amount of luck, charisma, and simple interest. My friend possesses the skills to create such a network for herself and the abiding interest in what all those people have to offer to keep her working at it. (An excellent essay by Malcolm Gladwell describes another such person, though of a previous generation and located in Chicago and in many ways very different, lest my friend call foul on the comparison.) She recently moved away from New York, far away across the country to the west coast, to live with a roommate who is, natch, a very old and dear friend. She told me not long ago that she finds it hard to imagine a finer existence than what she's got going: a job she loves, a roommate she adores, a new city she can't get enough of, art at all hours, biking, cooking, fresh air, ease, happiness. A better life in many ways than that in New York. And yet, and yet... She may correct me, but it seems that a part of her longs for what she left behind, the faces and personalities, once within easy reach, now lie at the far end of the United States, accessible by phone or the Internet. What she feels most acutely is not a sense of loss from the people she cares about - they will always be a part of her life as long as both she and they make the effort to retain the connection (and, given the type of people they tend to be, this condition may be generally accepted across the board). Rather it is the sense of herself as the locus of that network, the spider at the center of the web, feeling every tiny vibration from any part and being in a position to react accordingly, that she misses. She is not self-centered (far from it, as she is generally far too busy worrying about the fortunes of the people she knows to be wrapped up in her own stuff) but nonetheless I think she enjoyed herself. But now she must take the role of observer rather than actor in the New York drama, and she perhaps understandably feels the awkwardness of yelling advice from the fifth row to the actors onstage. It's a hard thing to let go of.

And so for her and people like her, a city like New York is a near-inexhaustible department store filled with every imaginable (and unimaginable) sort of person to collect and enjoy, and life can be a sort of perpetual social free-for-all in which near-familial bonds apply to the broadest possible cross-section of society, everyone is welcome, all are eligible to play a significant role, and the whole thing is improvised so it's more fun. For others, though, all that selection can weigh one down. Sometimes one simply wishes to find a few people or a certain type that fill the specific holes in one's life that need filling. And among eight and a half million folks, stumbling upon those few individuals is a daunting prospect indeed. They know those people are out there. Maybe they sense that they've met some of them, and perhaps the knowledge that such a person came and went hangs heavy on their shoulders. Perhaps they fear another failure. They are cautious: they're not apt to stumble blindly but prefer the way well lit. And so they don't make friends easily, they are often alone, building their own personalities as best they can and hanging out a sign, hoping that the right folks will come along and be interested enough to step inside and have a look, and approve. But as often as not it simply doesn't work, because other people aren't psychic, and they're usually just as terrified of disapproval as our loner. Putting one's personality forth unreservedly is not as easy as it seems. There are countless theatrical metaphors to be used at this point, but in the name of good taste I think I'll let the implication do the job.


Bosh, you might say. Everyone needs alone time now and then, and making friends and being social is easy. Just relax, be yourself, and people will appreciate you. But stop and consider for a moment: how many of the folks you've met can well and truly be counted - not simply counted, relied upon as friends? How many of them can you expect to be there when you fall on hard times, to wonder about you when you're now around, to love you in whatever way is appropriate for whoever they happen to be, and above all, to get you? The only creatures generally capable of doing this all the time are dogs (and not all of them; I have a scar on my right hand as proof). Humanity isn't quite so reliable. A crowded party, when there's none of those people in attendance, can be as barren as a desert and as lifeless as the waiting room at the DMV.

What a downer, huh? To be realistic, the sort of person who thinks like that all the time probably shouldn't be at those parties, because he's forgotten how to lighten up and have a good time. My point is simply that when all is said and done, I think a well developed person holds out hope that there will be someone in their life who will be the person to help them home after they've drunk enough alcohol to power an eco-friendly tank, and made out with three different people, only one of whose names they know. And who will give them a call the next morning (well, afternoon) to see how they're doing and make fun of them. And who will feel incomplete without them, and continually wonder what they might be doing or how they might be feeling, even if that wondering is only a little throb in the back of their minds as they carry on with their lives, working, creating, feeling, loving, fucking - that throb is always there, like the LED on a smoke detector that shows you that yes, still here, still ready to sound the alarm. I know I have a few of those folks out there. They're the ones that, whenever I find myself on a windy promontory over the ocean, or staring at something unintelligible at an art museum, or smelling the needles of a Christmas tree, or anticipating the bump of wheels on tarmac as the plane touches down on a foreign runway, or waiting for a subway at four in the morning after a wild night that has finally, finally ended, I wish could be with me. So if we're lonely, our loneliness is measured, perhaps, by how far away they are, and the time until we are together again.