I apologize for the molasses flow of content here this past week. I've been in the grip of an unrelated obsession, which is a problem I have. When I'm suffering from some sort of challenge—usually some form of fear, anger, or self-pity, or a life or health dilemma—sometimes my brain locks on to something non-productive that serves as a distraction or diversion. It's almost like I need something to concentrate on so I don't have to face what's really going on. It's not entirely voluntary—it always feels just a little out of control. It's a worrisome tendency. I don't know what to do about it, if anything.
I have a particular image of this mental problem. When Xander was very young I befriended a young woman in Illinois who had a child Xander's age. We met at the daycare. We never dated, but we spent time together with the kids and with various other parents and their kids. Despite being quite young and unusually sweet and gentle and pretty, she had several children by several men, and had had an unusually chaotic life, one marked by flagrant and dramatic dysfunction. She was in recovery, like me. I only visited her house one time—we stopped by for an outing, and she wasn't ready yet, so we were invited in. It was a small, run-down row house in a mixed city neighborhood, not exactly impoverished but far from fancy. Various children who might or might not have belonged there were rampaging merrily around. The harried-looking woman who answered the door introduced herself as a neighbor-slash-friend serving as the impromptu babysitter. The living room was a complete mess, the sort of mess that looked like it had been that way for a very long time and seldom if ever got cleaned or tidied.
Except for one small oasis. Over in the corner sat a man of late middle age who paid no mind to us at all. He sat in an armchair with a small table next to him, staring fixedly at a television only a few feet in front of him on which a violent movie was playing. On both of the walls that formed the corner were large bookcases that held VHS tapes of movies in neat rows, double-shelved. More tapes were in various storage racks and piles around him. Everything in his corner was fastidiously neat and organized, in contrast to the rest of the living room.
When my friend came down, we talked for a while before she told me the man in the corner was her father, and that the house was his. I felt obliged to be polite, so I walked the few steps over to him, introducing myself and offering my hand. He "left me hanging," as they say. She gently pulled me away, talking about him like he wasn't there. "He's given up," she said. She told me he wouldn't talk to me because he never talked to anyone, not even her. "It happened six or seven years ago, when I was seventeen," she told me. "My mother left him, and he lost his job, and I was out of control, and one day he just couldn't take it any more. Now he only pays attention to his movie collection. He won't work." Apparently he never interacted with her or any of the children at all, watching movies all day, every day, not helping around the house and eating only if he was presented with food. He spoke, but only to voice his preoccupation with which movies to keep and which to get rid of, and which ones he wanted to add. He apparently did this without needing anyone to listen, or indeed without needing anyone to be there. He had become a sort of ghost, in other words. She went on for a while in a sort of resigned but accepting voice, reminiscing about who her father had been before he...what? Changed, I guess.
That's an extreme case, I suppose. I have no idea what pathology is involved in something like that. Whenever my little diversions take hold of me, it's only a matter of a week or two—sometimes three, I guess—before it abates. But it interferes with my life and my work in the meantime, if I let it. I wonder if I need help? I don't know.
Members of the tribe
The funny thing is that my tendency to obsessiveness, which I don't believe has ever risen to the level of mental illness (but then, how would I know? When you're inside the jar, you can't read the label), has actually been an essential component of my work. I need it. It's functional. How can you write about photography for 35 years without being obsessive about it to some degree? How can you write a whole novel's worth of posts every year, and edit them, and moderate thousands of comments, without having an almost unnatural appetite for the subject?
In the past, just musing, I've looked at the human tendency to latch on to some narrow purview in sociobiological terms. The tribe is ancestrally the basic unit of human organization—a band of 30 to 150 individuals who cooperate together as a group, with a group identity, rituals that bind them, and some structure of authority and obedience. And the tribe needs specialists. Some need to hunt, some do the cooking, some make tools, clothes, shelters, or weapons, some instruct the children so the culture's ways and wisdom can transfer from one generation to the next, some direct the religious rites, some—usually with considerable encouragement from the group!—serve as the warriors, and some need to have the vision and wisdom to set the course for the group's decisions, its movements and strategies. A few of these leaders might also be the arbiters of internal disputes and feuds. I used to read a lot about the contact between the Europeans and the Native Americans, which afforded us a precious view of pre-agricultural tribal life. (It's a great tragedy the two couldn't co-exist—I suppose it gets down to disputes over land use, like in Gaza). Whenever I come across someone who is obsessive about something—a hairbrush collector, or a guy who has 1,581 skydiving jumps and thinks only of No. 1,582—it puts me in mind of our innate tendency to pick something that's "ours"—our role, our "thing," our passion—our real work, which might or might not include what we do for a living—something specific we can learn about and master so we stand a chance of making a contribution to the group.
Of course, it goes haywire sometimes. Almost all human tendencies are on a spectrum. But look around and you can see all sorts of examples of healthy, functional, productive obsessions, from Jay Leno and his cars, to Al Michaels with American football, to Bob Dylan and songwriting. Think how many singer/songwriters have retired or faded away while Dylan has carried on. There's something Homeric about it. So it doesn't have to be a bad thing. During my short stint as Senior Editor of Model Railroader magazine, I attended a workshop in Houston, and we went to the home of a famous model railroader to see his layout, which occupied the entire second floor of his home. The first thing he said when he addressed the group constituted a frank admission that model railroading was the way he had organized his entire life: his friendships, his hopes and goals, his day-to-day activities, his play-dates with like-minded friends (running trains on a model railroad layout is a complicated game called "operations"). Everything. It even motivated his work, because he needed money to feed his hobby. Lots of people who are successful at something need to have a significant appetite for it. Vijay Singh used to go to the driving range after tournaments, whereas three hours on a golf course is plenty for me in any given month. But during my lengthening tenure on Earth, I've detoured into a variety of different "communities of connoisseurship" at various times, getting deep into the weeds (or trying to) with pastimes as disparate as tube amps and vinyl records, Japanese bookbinding, and roasting my own coffee.
I think what lies behind my occasional semi-volitional detours into ridiculous obsessions is mainly fear. And what usually solves the problem for me is to make the fear conscious and then face it directly. Life requires a certain courageous open-mindedness toward change—not always, but at critical junctures. Here's one of the only literary passages I ever memorized, because my father had it rendered in calligraphy and framed, and it hung on the wall in the "book room" in the house where I grew up:
There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat;
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.
—William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
Beautiful language, that. Curious that not taking the current when it served was the form of my father's own downfall.
Anyway, I'm working on it. I do know things haven't been quite normal here at friendly ol' TOP recently, and I will get back on track! Because this isn't the first time this has happened, and I always do.
Mike
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Featured Comments from:
Jens Preshaw: "Wow. Such a thoughtful and honest blog post. At times, I feel very much like you, and just feel I’m getting through the day by putting one foot in front of the other. When colleagues criticize you at work, it’s disheartening, and affects you at home when you should be relaxing, enjoying yourself, or sleeping properly. They live in a ‘suburbia bubble’ and have difficulty relating to or understanding someone whose interests are different. For me, exercise helps. Long rides on my bike are very helpful. I love the sense of freedom you have on a bike. I also need days of forest therapy where I get up very early in the morning, drive in the dark for a few hours listening to the radio, to photograph the beautiful fall colours reflected in a mountain lake. I may be fortunate to get images of a bear, owl, or bald eagle. Sometimes I think there are millions of people where I live, but I’m the only one right now who is here with his camera and tripod at sunrise. I look forward to going home, looking at my images on my computer, and sharing a couple of photos I really like on my website/blog. It makes you feel better when you’ve accomplished something or had a productive day with your camera. Exercise, nature, and photography help me to get through the difficult times."
Kye Wood: "Nice article Mike. It's interesting how people respond. Many highlighting their own obsessions. I think Bert (from Sesame Streets' Bert and Ernie combo) has a great obsession—his bottlecap collection. Affordable. Compact. Colourful. And quirky. But reading your article made me feel something more about what lay between the lines. Knowing that we are mortal is really crap. The knowledge also makes caring about what lies beyond the end of our own personal existence...tenuous. A luxury item for many. And an unaffordable luxury for those on the edge of subsistence.
"My father was many things to many people. Hundreds attended his funeral. He was beloved. And I miss him. I always assumed that everyone had a great dad (and mum). It wasn't until my 20s that I realised the reality for many is far from that naive assumption. As for obsessions, my father's was Shakespeare. He'd memorised everything he authored. A lover of language. Not unlike yourself. I would offer that your real obsession is the precision and gymnastics of language. Being clever only to enhance the thought you're conveying. Not just for its own sake. My fathers greatest wisdom he ever shared, directly quoted: 'Be yourself. It's not just 'enough.' It's more than you'll ever need.' —Graham Wood."
