A speech by Frank Chimero.
This is beautiful.
The Particle
This morning I crawled out of bed incredibly early. I guess I’m not used to the sun being this bright or I’m still on New York time. I lurched out of bed at 6:30am and started wandering through a bunch of dirt plots a few blocks from the hotel looking for some coffee. I walked into this tiny coffee shop that served crepes, the sort of place filled with locals. People come in, say hi to the dude behind the espresso machine by name, and he’s already working on their drink. Same thing every morning, and I’ve just accidentally inserted myself into these people’s ritual. So, I’m sitting there eating my crepe and this guy named Jim walks in and immediately says to the man behind the counter: “Hey Nick, I’ve got a puzzle for you this morning.”
“What’s that?” Nick replies, and Jim starts talking about moving faster than light.
“You know they have that thing now that can shoot particles faster than light, so they actually show up before they’re shot out of that gun. Totally crazy stuff. I guess if you go faster than light you can essentially time travel.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yep. So, I was thinking on the way over here this morning. Suppose the rest of the world still goes on like usual around that little tiny particle, but it’s shooting through space so fast that time hiccups. So, you think that the particle actually shows up in the same place in relation to the Earth’s position, or just in general to the universe?”
“What?”
“Well, I don’t know. I was just thinking that if you were to time travel an hour into the past, the earth would be in a slightly different spot in the universe because it rotates and goes around the sun. So, if you disappear then reappear, are you going to be standing in front of the espresso machine like you are now, or are you going to reappear outside, because the earth shifted under your feet and cruised through space while you were time traveling?”
“What the fuck are you talking about Jim? Did you just get back from the sweat lodge?”
“Yeah.”
I was thinking back to what it was like being in school, and god, it feels a lot like being that little particle. You’re somewhere trapped between past, present, and future. You’re not in the present, because there’s a part of you that feels like life is on hold until school’s done, and you know that most of the information you’re being taught is somehow dated. Yet, all of this is done in service to your future. And while all the world around you is moving and shifting, you’re essentially in none of these places, waiting to see where you will reappear, and if the world is in the same spot as when you vanished or if the earth has somehow shifted under your feet. You’re a part of the world, but you are in a cocoon and incubating. You’re moving faster than light and learning all of these new things, and yet you know that it’s not nearly enough. Simultaneously, it is all much too much to do.
The Cave
I think one of the most odd things about learning is the moment where you know enough to realize how much you don’t know. It’s scary as hell, because of how vulnerable it makes you feel. The sensation of this virgin thought might only be on par to when you are a child and you realize you only have a one and only life, or when you are a little older and realize that other people can hurt you in a way that no one else can see, and you can do the same to them. Understanding these things is a weight, and it makes you feel very tiny. So small, like that particle.
There is a reach to knowledge and skill. You know what you know, and through time and effort and diligent focus, you’ve also come to realize a few of the things that you don’t know. You begin to understand that those unknowns are within reach if you stretch a bit. That’s learning. And then the thought occurs to you that puts the fear of God in your bones: there are things out of your reach, (Important things! Crucial things!) that you will never know that you don’t know. It’s a darkness too dark to pierce.
It feels a bit like walking through a cave with a really crummy torch. The torch gives enough light to see a couple feet in front of you. We’re told that’s enough to get out, but I’m always left wishing I could see a little further into the future, because I’ve got a pretty good hunch this cave is massive. If only we could make our torches burn a little brighter.
The Paralysis
But there’s actually a boon to that torch being kind of bad, dim, and fussy: your choices become much easier. If you could see the expanse of it all, you wouldn’t know where to begin. I remember finishing school and being paralyzed with choices. What future would I choose? Which vision of the world am I going to opt into? Where do I want to work? What do I want to do? Who do I want to be?
Asking someone who they want to be is just about the worst question you can ask someone in their twenties. Choice and opportunity breed a weird sort of paralysis, kind of like how it’s now a nightmare to go and buy toothpaste because that aisle is filled with so many options built on minor differences. Am I a whitening man who cares about appearances, or am I more of the simple, utilitarian sort who just opts for tartar control? Am I the eccentric who wants the stripes in the toothpaste, and hey, did you know that this kind actually has scrubbing bubbles that eliminate germs on your tongue?
You can stand in that toothpaste aisle for days, cow-eyed and numb, pulling a box off the shelf and then putting it back, again and again, always wondering if you made the right choice. Eventually you get to the point where you say “Jesus, it’s just toothpaste,” and you grab the box with the most adjectives printed on its face and get on with your life. It’s best to just get to work and figure things out on the road, so rather than applying for design jobs out of school, I started freelancing. I needed to have my hands doing stuff so that my brain could work. I did the work in front of me, made enough money to allow myself some space, repeated that over and over, and here I am six years later riding the same wave, and hopelessly addicted to pointing my nose to the wind. Gotta move. Gotta make. I bet you’re much the same.
Truth is, this phase, this time when you’re on the cusp of finishing one life and starting a new one, is usually laced with fear, but the bleary-eyed moment of wonder that happens when you step out of the dark cave has the potential to be one of the most thrilling things that has ever happened to you. It’s like when you walk out of a theater after seeing a matinee that you really enjoyed. You went alone, and you laughed a bit and maybe choked up in a scene or two, and now you stumble out of the theater onto the noisy street and your pupils become pinheads and it feels like two new pairs of eyes are being born in your head. The world is mostly the same, but you are different, and you see differently. Such hope. Such vision. Such titilating optimism, so much it makes your fingers tingle like when you fall asleep on your arm. I have a friend who says that tingling is what it feels like to be alive. The world becomes another movie to watch, and people simultaneously somehow become even more like people and also like symbols and metaphors for things. And then you start watching yourself the same way. You realize you will never fully understand everything, you will always doubt your choices, and from this comes a great lightness. You forgive yourself. You simplify. You ask why, and there’s actually a very simple reason why you were trudging through the cave in the first place.
Source: blog.frankchimero.com
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