Rules

                They always tell you not to talk about sex, religion, or politics with other people, at least until you know them pretty well, but even then (as always) it depends on the wheres and the whens of the matter. One of the more fascinating aspects of human society is the set of unspoken rules regarding what can be said, to whom, and in what context. I’ll admit that my interest in the subject probably stems from my seemingly chronic inability to figure these rules out spontaneously… I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion that they must have taught them to everybody one day in first grade, and I must have happened to be home sick with a cold. Then again, I’m sure everybody has problems in this area to varying degrees, but as we all know it’s impossible to know another person’s mind in all its details. Of course, I’m constantly working to improve on this front, and what I’ve learned has been the result of continuous trial and error.

                I’ve learned, for instance, that it’s generally frowned upon to try to start a debate on the existence of God while the priest is delivering his sermon. I’ve learned that people of all stripes get awfully prickly when you start pointing out the contradictions in their belief systems—and that in the end belief systems are less about “being true” than a way to find people to agree with (people love it when people agree with them). I’ve learned that given recent events it’s probably not a tactful time to wonder if people who say that a fetus isn’t a living thing actually believe what they’re saying, or if that’s just a convenient ruse so they can keep any debate on semi-civil terms. In general, I’ve learned that the best way to get to know people is to just let them keep talking, maybe agree with them here and there on some harmless point, and before long they’ll warm up to you and start telling you their life story. Questions work wonders in that regard: people love it when someone else shows enough of an interest in their life and opinions to ask them who they are and what they think. We’re all creatures of language, after all, and how are we going to know ourselves if we don’t tell ourselves to other people?

                Although I will admit this little secret—strangely enough, the most interesting people often become uncannily evasive when you ask them about themselves. Sometimes I think they know something that other people don’t…

                One of the more interesting discoveries I’ve made is that under certain circumstances (context, as always, is everything) it’s both acceptable and encouraged to break the standard rules. It’s as if, over and above the set of implied but unspoken rules, there were a set of even more subtly implied meta-rules that specify when and where the lesser rules don’t apply. Take comedy, for instance. A standup comedian can get up on a stage and say the most unacceptable, misanthropic things, and we love them for it because it breaks up the tension of our days and allows us to loosen our hold over ourselves for a little while. Comedy, like religion, is the art of making a very good living off of telling people just how awful they are.

                Maybe you’ve noticed by now that, in terms of life-strategies, I tend to play the observer. Watching and learning, silently and at a distance, always comes more naturally to me than insisting on being in the middle of things. Of course, there’s no shortage of observations to be made, and the world is always ready to offer up new mysteries and new ways of seeing, but I’ve found that the observer’s role comes with its own unique set of problems. Dedicating yourself to the science of how people act and how to act around them has a tendency to leave you wondering who you really are. People will ask me who I am and I’ll be stunned by the question, finally stammering something like, “Well, I breathe air, I occupy space, and I persist through time.” I guess that makes me a person, although of course it’s hard to tell, sometimes.

                I’ll admit that it disturbs me that I’ve managed to talk about myself for so long, today—as a rule I’ve found it’s easier to talk about myself when I’m pretending to talk about someone else. This whole little essay, in fact, strikes me as incredibly pedestrian and self-indulgent (I say near the end, as though to negate everything I’ve said after the fact). I meant to talk about T.S. Eliot’s “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” at some point in this essay, but then again I don’t think it would quite fit anywhere and anyways nobody reads poetry these days. Maybe I’ll write about that some other time—but then again who knows what the future holds?

                Allow me to add one last point before you comment on it—I’m painfully aware that this essay was an egregious failure. It’s as though I meant to say something completely different, but I only said this instead. I’ll try again in a couple of days.