Individualism

This past month has been one filled with putting myself together. (It's the only way to make a work of Art). So, in light of that, I apologize for not have posted more frequently.

I have been struggling with creating a Life philosophy for myself. Being self-critical and self-aware, it's important to me that all of my major actions come from an unchangeable part, inside of me. All threads of action should come from the same core of fabric---so I've been reading and writing a lot: deciding what that fabric is. What it is innately and what I can take out of it and what I can add to it.

This struggle for clarity and consistency in my perception of myself has been an ongoing one. However, it has recently come to light because I read Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead.

Here is my journal entry upon finishing the book:

Alright, I know it has been a few days since I last wrote. But, I have a great excuse: I finished The Fountainhead. And, I'm a Republican. No, just kidding. (I don't really even know exactly where all the political parties stand on every topic and in relation to each other).

So The Fountainhead was very um...what's the word...changing or something. The book is about the sanctity of one's Self---how in the face of History and Nature, common men feel dwarfed into socialist mentality. That is, individuals frequently mold themselves to the pressures and desires of the Masses---it's easier that way. It's so difficult to consistently be creative and not want to be wanted and desired by others. However Rand asserts that any dependence on other men for Happiness is a slight to one's Self. (I want cheese really badly right now.)

As hesistant as I am to totally indulge in Individualism, I can't help but recognize how much sense it makes. We come into the world with only our mind and body. Why would we NOT hone these two assets to the absolute height of what they could be. Why NOT spend every waking moment dedicated to making oneself as great as he can be. Live for your own Happiness: because that is the only true motivation.

I moved to India on humanitarian principles. I came because:

a. it sounded pretty cool; "I spent a few weeks in a village bathing from a bucket." and secondly because:

b. I felt like the dedication of myself to helping others would be a good use of my time when I had no specific direction. I felt the guilt of privilege---knowing that I had been given so much---and that I should take time to give back. I also felt that in "doing something" (in this case, for others) would ignite something within me.

The protagonist in The Fountainhead says, "Peter, before you can do things for people, you have to be the kind of man who can get things done."

So, I don't have any skills. I can't get things done. What is a quest to help myself through helping others if I can't delude myself into thinking that I'm truly helping.

This is the full excerpt from which the aforementioned quote comes from in The Fountainhead. Howard Roark (an architect; protagonist) explaining why he loves his work so much and why he spend so much time doing it:

"But first, I want you to think and tell me what made me give years to this work. Money? Fame? Charity? Altruism?" Keating shook his head slowly "All right. You're beginning to understand. So whatever we do, don't let's talk about the poor people in the slums. They have nothing to do with it, though I wouldn't envy anyone the job of trying to explain that to fools. You see, I'm never concerned with my clients, only with their architectural requirements. I consider these as part of my buildings theme and problem, as my building's material----just as I consider bricks and steel. Bricks and steel are not my motive. Neither are the clients. Both are only the means of my work. Peter, before you can do things for people, you must be the kind of man who can get things done. But to get things done, you must love the doing, not the secondary consequences. The work, not the people. Your own action, not any possible object of your charity. I'll be glad if people who need [the low-cost housing] find a better manner of living in a house I designed. But that's not the motive of my work. Nor my reason. Nor my reward."

All of this really got me to thinking. Yes, it's possible that a couple of kids' lives were marginally enriched because of my presense in their village (their presense in my life was MUCH more enriching I'm sure). And yes, if I dress a couple of wounds at the health clinic I work at currently---I'm sure my being there makes a tiny tiny tiny bit of difference. Really, what is the beach but a trillion little pieces of sand put together?

But why deal with grains of sand---if you're capable of handling handfulls?

That is, would it be more productive for me to focus the energy I'm expending here on making myself a better server? What is it inside of us that prevents us from realizing our potentials?

Another important quote; It doesn't really matter much who the characters are; but, this is a conversation between Gail Wynand (the ruthless capitalist "most powerful man in the world" guy) and Dominique Francon (the heartless bitch idealist). They're talking about things the common man is afflicted by: things like the acceptance of mediocrity. They're on a ship.

"She said:
"May I name another vicious bromide you've never felt?"
"Which one?"
"You've never felt how small you were when looking at the ocean."
He laughed. "Never. Nor looking at the planets. Nor at mountain peaks. Nor at the Grand Canyon. Why should I? When I look at the ocean, I feel the greatness of man. I think of man's magnificent capacity that created this ship to conquer all that senseless space. When I look at mountain peaks, I think of tunnels and dynamite. When I look at the planets, I think of airplanes."
"Yes. And that particular sense of sacred rapture men say they experience in contemplating nature---I've never received it from nature, only from..." She stopped.
"From what?"
"Buildings," she whispered. "Skyscrapers."
"Why didn't you want to say that?"
"I...don't know."
"I would give the greatest sunset in the world for one sight of New York's skyline. Particularly when one can't see the details. Just the shapes. The shapes and the thought that made them. The sky over New York and the will of man made visible. What other religion do we need? And then people tell me about pilgrimages to some dank pesthole in a jungle where they go to do homage to a crumbling temple, to a leering stone monster with a pot belly, created by some leprous savage. Is it beauty and genius they want to see? Do they seek a sense of the sublime? Let them come to New York, stand on the shore of the Hudson, look and kneel. When I see the city from my window---no, I don't feel how small I am---but I feel that if a war came to threaten this, I would like to throw myself into space, over the city, and protect these buildings with my body."
"Gail, I don't know whether I'm listening to you or myself."
"Did you hear yourself just now?"
"She smiled. "Actually not. But I won't take it back, Gail."
"Thank you---Dominique." His voice was soft and amused. "But we weren't talking about you or me. We were talking about other people." He leaned with both forearms on the rail, he spoke watching the sparks in the water. "It's interesting to speculate on the reasons that make men so anxious to debase themselves. As in that idea of feeling small before nature. It's not a bromide, it's practically an institution. Have you noticed how self-righteous a man sounds when he tells you about it? Look, he seems to say, I'm so glad to be a pygmy, that's how virtuous I am. Have you heard with what delight people quote some great celebrity who's proclaimed that he's not so great when he looks at Niagara Falls? It's as if they were smacking their lips in sheer glee that their best is dust before the brute force of an earthquake. As if they were sprawling on all fours, rubbing their foreheads in the mud to the majesty of a hurricane. But that's not the spirit that leashed fire, steam, electricity, that crossed oceans in sailing sloops, that built airplanes and dams...and skyscrapers. What is it they fear? What is it they hate so much, those who love to crawl? And why?"
"When I find the answer to that," she said, "I'll make my peace with the world."

What is it they fear? What is it they hate so much, those who love to crawl? And why?"

Wow.

We're so self-effacing in the face of Nature, History, and guilt of privelege. But who cares about all of that? Seriously. Nothing great was ever achieved because some guy said, "I'm alright."

Mozart didn't say, "I'm only one composer. I'm nobody next to the thousands in the past who did this before me. I'm only good at this because my dad started me on piano when I was two. I would have never been good unless my dad did that."

He said, "There's a right way to compose. I'm going to do it. I don't care if you agree or not." And then he did it. It's not even significant that Mozart changed the world and the evolution of Music. That's totally superfluous. The fact that he didn't succumb to his peers---and had the self-respect to believe wholeheartedly in his own vision---THAT is what is significant.

Anyhow, I've really been affected by all of this. In realizing this obligation we have to our Selves: I've made my trip to India conflicting with my understanding of my life. I've learned that most of the people who "volunteer" are just martyrs or people who are trying to nurture an ailing resume. That is, I came here on the principle of helping others---and I'm realizing that I can do a thousand-fold more for these same people, if I invested more time in myself.

And that's what ALL of this is about. Self-respect. Why do we shy from spending time on making ourselves the greatest we could be? What are we so scared of?

---

Currently I'm in Ahmedabad in Gujarat. After my project ended in Rajasthan, I spent a week in Jaipur---mostly in a bed because I was ill. I then took a train to Vadodara (my family's hometown). There, I read voraciously for a week---and then thought it was time to find another project.

I moved to my uncle's place in Ahmedabad and started working in a health-clinic in a slum. The working conditions are terrible; but it's interesting nonetheless.

The most interesting thing that has happened has been my visit to the tailors. I'm a small-framed guy so it's difficult for me to find clothes that fit me well in America. Knowing this, I went to Mood and bought amazing fabrics to have several suits and shirts made.

I went to a store called Jade Blue and was immediately offered bottled water. I was then asked what I wanted. "I want to have several custom suits made."

"This way, sir." I was taken to the second floor---where three walls were covered in literally thousands of bolts of fabric. I sat down at the counter, where I was asked if I wanted any refreshments or snacks---I declined. I haven't even bought anything yet. I haven't even seen anything to buy yet.

Two salesmen asked me what I wanted. I showed them pictures of suits I wanted made and they responded with unbelievable amounts of accomodation. "Yes, we can do this any way you want." "Sure, we will accept fabric that you've brought." "Would you like us to give you a back massage and buy you dinner?"

Ok, they didn't provide the last one---but it felt like they did.

So I've had my first fitting---and everything looks alright. The suit is a copy of this Paul Smith (I'll have several made; but the first one is black Italian lightweight wool---and imagine a vest (which I got just in case---I don't think I'll be wearing it)). The only major differences are---the closure on the pant will go straight up (no small fabric wrap), and, the length of the jacket will be shortened a little to accomodate my short torso. (Also, I feel like a jacket that's too long ends up being too formal---and I'd like to be able to casually wear these suits.)

I'll report back when all of my clothes are made.