“The tremendous leisure industry that has arisen in the last few
generations has been designed to help fill free time with enjoyable
experiences. Nevertheless, instead of using our physical and mental
resources to experience flow, most of us spend many hours each week
watching celebrated athletes playing in enormous stadiums. Instead of
making music, we listen to platinum records cut by millionaire
musicians. Instead of making art, we go to admire paintings that brought
in the highest bids at the latest auction. We do not run risks acting
on our beliefs, but occupy hours each day watching actors who pretend to
have adventures, engaged in mock-meaningful action.”
―
Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi,
Flow
I had live-streamed Bonnaroo on my laptop on June 15, 2014. I had been talking to my sister who lived so close to the festival site (Manchester, Tennessee) at the time that she could hear the music. We are both huge Jack White fans so she was ecstatic to be able to hear his set live from her backyard and I was green with envy as I sat in Orlando watching it live-stream on my laptop. But I recorded a few bits and pieces of his set onto my voice recorder on my iPhone as I listened. Today I was going through all my old voice memos and heard one from Jack's Bonnaroo set that I wanted to share. It's just something that I've thought of many times and to hear someone else say it was pretty cool.
He quotes a conversation he had with a movie director one time who said, "I think films are so strange. If an alien came down and walked into a movie theater, and watched [all the people watching] two people talking to each other on a screen, an alien would've said to a human being, 'so you come in here and pay money, your hard-earned money, to sit down and watch two people talk to each other? Why don't you do that at home? Why don't you do that at home?'"
I just think that's interesting. I've always felt a little strange watching TV or watching a movie. (don't get me wrong, I can binge-watch all 9 seasons of The Office, and I also love Grey's Anatomy) but I've always thought, "why am I sitting here watching other people do things? It's weird. Why don't I go out and do things?"
It's also a topic covered in a book I read a few years ago called, Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience by Mihaly Csikszentmihaly. In it, he writes, "Although watching TV is far from being a positive experience—generally
people report feeling passive, weak, rather irritable, and sad when
doing it—at least the flickering screen brings a certain amount of order
to consciousness. The predictable plots, familiar characters, and even
the redundant commercials provide a reassuring pattern of stimulation.
The screen invites attention to itself as a manageable, restricted
aspect of the environment. While interacting with television, the mind
is protected from personal worries. The information passing across the
screen keeps unpleasant concerns out of the mind.”
I guess my point is, watching movies and TV has its place. Sometimes we need to do something mindless and escape our reality for a while. I just think we need to be careful not to go overboard and let our lives slip away. It feels so much better to create something yourself, whether you're dancing, singing, writing, painting, crafting, designing a video game, a website, starting your own biz, quilting, making handbags out of your cat's shedded fur...
Anyone else agree?
Reaching across the table, I take Charlotte’s hand and squeeze
it gently. She smiles and gives me a light squeeze in return. It’s our
third date and we’re sitting in a booth in the back corner of T.G.I.
Friday’s. I had made reservations (unbeknownst to her) at an expensive
French restaurant but Charlotte had insisted on Friday’s because she
loves their mojitos. I think she might be a keeper.
As soon as the server leaves, Charlotte slides the flip booklet
in front of her and starts thumbing through the pictures of drinks and
desserts. “Ooh, look at this,” she says, pointing to a picture of molten
lava cake.
I nod and start to reply but my heart skips a beat. I look
around the restaurant and register the song flowing out of the speakers
above us. It’s that song. God, how I hate it. And as if that
isn’t bad enough, the music video is on the television above the bar.
Why don’t they have football on? Faith Hill is sitting atop a giant
peach, swinging back and forth, singing about a kiss that was apparently
so powerful she had to write a song about it. I had seen the video
years ago when it came out, but now it just seems stupid. The cheesy
melody, her perky vocal inflections full of overdone joy, it’s too much.
I normally don’t have such strong opinions about music, but there is a
reason this particular song irks me so much. I remember being in the
sixth grade and having to take the bus to and from school every day.
I stood at the end of my driveway by our faded black mailbox and
watched as the big yellow bus slowed to a stop in front of me. After
some puffing noises from the engine, the folded door opened and I looked
up to see Mr. Evans. He was leaning over in his seat, his large hand
gripping the lever. Wiry tufts of grey hair spread across his hand like
old, dying trees in a forest with a peach floor and tiny brown ponds
scattered throughout. Looking back up at his face, I watched him raise
his eyebrows and give me a half-hearted smile. I hesitated. There was
still time to run back to the house.
He rolled his eyes. “C’mon, son,” he said. “Haven’t got all
day.” I did this every morning and every morning Mr. Evans would say the
same thing, an annoyed look on his wrinkled and weather-beaten face. I
sighed and climbed the steps, praying Benjamin would be home sick today.
But no such luck. He was sitting in the back, as usual, away from Mr.
Evans, away from any possibility of him hearing what went on back there.
Benjamin sat up straight in his seat as soon as I stepped on.
“Hey, Matt!” he called out. “I saved you a seat. Come on, buddy!” He
slapped the seat next to him loudly and laughed, looking around at his
friends who laughed with him. My eyes scanned the entire bus for a seat
away from him but they were all taken. The only open seats were in the
back. Resigned, I made my way back to an open seat two rows ahead of
him.
“Aww, you hurt my feelings,” he said. “I just want to be your friend.”
I ignored him and sat down, putting my backpack on the floor in
front of me. Then I felt a sharp searing pain on the top of my head.
Turning around, I realized Benjamin must have switched seats with
someone so now he was sitting directly behind me. Hitting me on the head
with his book was his favorite, followed by shooting spitballs at me
through a straw. And then, like clockwork, “This Kiss” from Faith Hill
started playing on the radio. 107.1 WJAM must have played it fifty times
a day and I heard it every single morning on the way to school and
sometimes on the way back home, too. It was the soundtrack to my
torture, courtesy of Benjamin Pruitt, the nightmare of the sixth grade
at Lexington Elementary.
He continued his attack, alternating between the spitballs and
the whacks to the top of my head all while taunting me, saying things
like, “Why are you such a nerd, Matt?” and “Everyone hates you, why
don’t you just jump out the window?” As I yelled at him to leave me
alone, while trying to get Mr. Evans’ attention (he was too busy singing
along to the stupid song), and dodging the wet pieces of paper flying
at me, the words blared from the speaker, “It’s. . .the way you love me,
it’s. . .a feeling like this, it’s. . .centrifugal motion, it’s
perpetual bli-iss. . .”
“Hello? Earth to Matt,” Charlotte’s voice rings in my ears.
I blink. “I’m sorry,” I say, glancing around. The song is over.
“What happened? Are you OK? You were gone for a minute there.”
“Oh, yeah, I—“ I start. Should I tell her or will she think I’m crazy? Hell with it. “That song just. . .it makes me—“
“Oh, God. I hate that song,” Charlotte says, sticking her finger
in her mouth and making a gagging noise. “It’s so annoying. A song
about a damn kiss? Really? So lame.”
I laugh and breathe a sigh of relief. “I couldn’t agree more.”
