Today I was walking with Kaleigh and the family dog, through a trail in the woods. It used to be a railroad track, long ago, but it’s been converted to a lovely walking trail.
So, we’re walking through the forest, almost back at home already. And the dog, Moxie, she disappears for a minute. And comes back with some big, ugly looking bone. There’s meat clinging to it, and it’s disgusting. We’re like two minutes away from home too, and Moxie doesn’t seem to want to let it go. She’s got this big, hulking animal bone with rotting meat stuck to it.
And we’re throwing sticks for her, hoping she’ll abandon the bone and chase them. Of course, she doesn’t. We tell her to drop it, and of course, she doesn’t. We’re worried she’s going to try to bring it back to the house, and we don’t want to try to pry it out of her mouth or anything.
So, it’s not a crisis by any means, but there’s this looming feeling of dread for those last few minutes as she trumps towards the house with a hefty bit of carcass in her mouth. And then, just at the last minute, before we break free of the forest into the quiet cul-de-sac where we live, she trots off the path and begins burying it. It takes her a good couple minutes to dig and bury it, but she comes trotting back with a big stupid dog grin on her face.
I don’t think Moxie planned that burial all along, because I’m positive that she’s one of the dumbest dogs ever. I think it just occurred to her at the last minute, that she should save it – that she had better food at home, but maybe, some day, this bone would be useful out in these woods.
It reminded me of a certain feeling. When I’m writing a poem, or designing a game, or working on any of a thousand ill-thought-out projects, there’s this feeling of joyful vigor. If asked to explain why I was pouring so much energy into such a project, I’d be hard pressed to come up with a good explanation; most of my projects are flights of fancy, or things that only reveal their importance much later.
Later, I’ll likely abandon the project, but that doesn’t feel like a bad thing. It feels like I’m burying another bone at the edge of the forest, that it’s not gone, that it’s set aside for when I want it again. And if that’s never, that’s fine. Moxie doesn’t really think she’s going to need that bone some day. I don’t really think I’m going to need that half-finished project some day. It’s just… nice. It’s nice to feel invigorated by work, and not feel the need to justify that vigor. It’s nice to have the luxury to bury your work, without ceremony, and only ever return if you feel energized to do so. It’s nice to feel accountable only to your own spirit.
And those bones that litter the edge of your forest, they’re not waste. Because it doesn’t take completeness to feel accomplishment. For Moxie, the very act of carrying that bone around was an accomplishment. Burying it was an accomplishment. Moving on was an easy and joyful task.
It’s nice to not know. It’s nice to feel okay about not knowing. The bones will still be where you buried them, should you ever need them.
I go hurtling forward, and for a second there it must seem like I’m going to hit him, because in a flash he’s got both of his hands wrapped around my neck. Panic floods my vision; we make eye contact. His grip loosens and he slowly pulls his hands back. We communicate as much with our eyes and body language as we can, considering we’re in a dark room packed with people. “Sorry,” he yells, “I thought you were about to punch me.”
“No. I was only going to shove you.”
“Yeah, okay.”
We start dancing again, timidly at first. We’re back to moshing within a handful of moments.
I don’t think there’s a universally-established code of conduct for moshes. I certainly haven’t heard of one. Some people go in looking for a friendly, physical release; others go in looking for a fight. Some people will be really upset (in the “dude, wtf, that’s not cool” way) if you throw a punch at them. What’s even more disparate than the assumed conduct of a mosh is the assumed point. I’ve definitely collided with people who I could tell were going into it with something very different in mind. At a Mindless Self Indulgence concert two years ago, the guy next to me whispered to his friend, “next song, I’m totally going to hurt someone.” At the start of the next song, he ran, jumped into the air, and planted both of his feet squarely in the small of someone’s back. She hit the ground hard. I still have no idea what the hell was going through his head.
Moshing is a discourse that takes place with no meaning. It could be argued that there is some hidden language to moshing, some collective consciousness that we are exploring. I refute these arguments. What goes on when someone moshes? I’d argue that the only universal constant is release. Release does not equate meaning. There is no significance to the interactions that take place during moshing.
Evidence to support this claim, that these interactions take place without meaing:
1.) “I thought you were about to punch me.” “No. I was only going to shove you.” “Yeah, okay.”
2.) The same evening, there was a guy who I was moshing with. He’d hit me really hard, attempting to knock me off my feet, and then extend an arm to help me stabilize so I wouldn’t fall and get trampled. He was straight-up attempting to knock me over, but then was counter-balancing that by keeping me upright. Knocking me over solely for the sake of knocking me over.
I’d like to suggest that release can be a goal, and achieving meaning can be a goal, and that expressing meaning can be a goal. And I’d like to suggest that even when goals work in tandem, the more goals that you have, the less energy you are able to devote to each. In order to achieve the strongest release, you need to isolate and remove meaning (at least as a goal, preferably also as an in-the-moment side-effect).
Where do we see this happening? Moshing, as I’ve argued. As far as musical genres, breakcore and extreme noise. In movies, some avant-garde surrealist work. I’d argue Eraserhead. Certain drugs. What does these things have in common?
Discord.
Let’s use games as a lens for analyzing discord and the reduction of meaning. Sociologist Roger Caillois identifies, as one kind of play, ilinx. Ilinx is defined as play “…based on the pursuit of vertigo and which consist[s] of an attempt to momentarily destroy the stability of perception and inflict a kind of voluptuous panic upon an otherwise lucid mind. In all cases, it is a question of surrendering to a kind of spasm, seizure, or shock which destroys reality with sovereign brusqueness.”
What does ilinx provide for us?
