It's the Format, Stupid?

Hotei, a laughing monkWhy add that cruel address? stupid? I'm talking to myself like that because this is maybe the hundredth time I've realized that format steers human interaction. When I told friends about my big Aha, they were, like: oh yeah, look at the signature on your email. 

PsychoZen.Org, Method Meets Life

But, no, I'm not stupid, just making the same old error. What prompted the too familiar revelation this time was that I found myself comparing my Zen friends with other important people in my life who seemed to misunderstand my nature. And then I remembered The Cloakroom, a tiny area at the Zendo where people doff and don their shoes and jackets. In this bitsy space people overflow with the kind of small talk that has always made me freeze with fear and then burn with irritation.

How are you? [do I tell about my disease or just kvell about the weather?]
I'm excited about my new show. [did I know this? should I ask, but do I have to go?]
Got any exciting plans for the summer? [no, I'm hopelessly behind as usual and now I have to ask about yours and feel even worse]

But then the format changes and everything changes. We sit quietly together as our minds entrain to the lower frequencies that can hold and modulate the usual cacophony. The people don't change, except they do.

My patients rarely saw me as judgmental, but plenty of friends and family think I'm pretty opinionated. Who is mistaken? Neither, of course. I didn't judge during sessions because that isn't the format. It would mess up my listening mind. It wouldn't transform anything. It would make people feel worse. While all that is possibly still true outside the therapeutic environment, it's damn fun to have a good argument. Maybe not in the cloakroom, but...

Similarly, tweet all day and your mind will be shallow and fragmented, unless you vigilantly curate your feed. Go to a traditional school and you will produce traditional ideas, unless you make a point of rebelling. Hang around with woke people and you will probably become facile with the splendid spectrum of pronouns. 

Format. Context. Method.

So, I've designed improvisations that elevate the sound of language over the meaning. I've created groups that bend toward truth instead of social requirements. And I've tried to avoid formats that make my brain explode. 

That doesn't make me right and you wrong, just because you like cloakrooms and cocktail parties. And it doesn't make me dislike you. In fact, I might admire you a little. Just don't invite me to your opening. 

Hah, no, that's too harsh a conclusion, though I can't go to your opening now, and you probably aren't having one. But if I could and you were, I might spit and stammer before I finally gush appropriately. I might need an hour or a day to recover. It's ok. I'll survive.

oops, or maybe not. ;-)

February 9, 2022