I recall an interview of an artist roommate of Syd Barrett's in which he told of how when he'd be working on a painting in his room, he'd also be acutely aware of Syd's inert presence, lying on his bed in the other room, and he imagined Syd must be thinking that he could get up and do anything, but as soon as he did, it would preclude the possibility of anything else.
At least that's what I recall of it (though I'm not gonna search for it on YooToob and distract myself).
Anyway, it struck me as profound at the time, whereby only now do I consider his roommate's tale a classic projection, of which he would seem to have been aware, insofar as he did state it was what he had imagined Syd might be thinking.
At any rate, this reminds me, too, of what I perceive as the increased commonality of the discussion of the notion that we humans have no free will, but rather, like everything else in the observable physical universe, are only objects in a chain of determinism, and, though this is not new, it not so long ago occurred to me that this is both a simplification and complication of reality.
In short, the deterministic nature of the cause & effect universe does not preclude our having choices at every twist and turn. Yet most of these seem to me like choices at the ho-hum place of the routine management of the human condition of being aware we can make them. Or not.
The choice to paint one's walls falls into this category, I think. Then there are the manifold decisions to be made that become increasingly unavoidable as the state from which this confrontation occurs falls into categories we perceive as more crucial to wellbeing, and ultimately survival.
As regards depression and anxiety, I think about how my established routine has gone so far toward diminishing their debilitating effects by keeping them less looming than their latency would imply. But that's not all !-D
Indeed, the sense of purpose is always looming; indeed, merely getting up early achieves only the first step wherefrom the rest presents itself with nagging choice after nagging choice, to be made, or not, whereby each has its own threat assessment swimming synaptically unseen yet ever present, as is evinced by what I've coined the OCD of mind, i.e. the manic nature of seemingly shambolic and infinitely rapid thinking that won't let one go.
Hence the routine, which continues with a series of doings, the only obsessive nature of which is anything that would get in their way, i.e. force a choice to change the program, a change of commitment. But these are pretty easy to get around as long as I can avoid all-or-nothing thinking.
Enough of the pitfalls of freewill; there is also a liberating freedom — at not just one, but two ends of the spectrum of always choo-choo choosing: At the one end is an eternal recurrence of the realization that, even if I cannot do anything I want, I can feel any way I want about it; what was nagging me was merely me. At the other end's the choice to not choose, leaving one's future free for whatever comes next.
As long as I can balance the ability to know what I can do without (and say, 'I don't need this' without nagging consequences) with the recognition of how doing-with would net positive results without drastically changing my universe, my sanity remains intact.
As regards the fear of commitment, I think it is based on all-or-nothing thinking, with oft unwarranted worries about the exclusion of anything or anyone else. Selfish or not, can't I choose to make someone else (feel) good or better or less bad?
People who love music have reported sometimes getting more out of creating mixtapes for someone else. Correctly or not, they feel a sense of giving to someone else the enjoyment the music'd brought to themselves. I can't imagine the choice to make a mixtape shuts out future personal possibilities.
Can I do that by painting a wall? In my case, probably not, yet the walls of my kitchen have provided a sense of something whose value I cannot diminish. And I didn't even do anything.
Had I painted the collection of tiny triangles that just happen to recount to my mind the tale of The Illustrated Man, with the other tales therein, including the blank spot on the wall for the fear of the known future, I am sure my retelling of the tale of the painting of the wall would paint my face with the sense of accomplishment, my attitude about pride notwithstanding. Let's say the sense of satisfaction would be net positive if not at all selfless. And you can always repaint a wall or leave it for someone else, assuming someone does not come along and take that choice away beforehand.
The creative impulse rules.
"The World the Children Made"
"The World the Children Made"
