I’ve fallen in love with Planet Earth. Yes, of course, our location, but moreover the BBC series narrated by David Attenborough. I revel in recognizing parallels between the human and animal worlds and drawing conclusions from basic biology, and Planet Earth affords me so much material to dissect. People are frequently insulted by my comparisons of humans and animals, and to them I say lighten up! Admittedly, animals may be left more receptive to their biological predispositions than humans, who have the capacity for rational and critical thought, but I believe that we are far too quick to assume these callings ineffectual in our lives– I find this assumption rather audacious and ignorant.
Watch this Birds of Paradise clip from the series, if for nothing more than to wet your pants laughing at these ridiculous animals, which may well be the abomination of the ever-purposeful natural world.
Attenborough tells us that these animals live in a world so bountiful they’ve evolved these eccentric mating rituals to pass the time. He alludes to the fact that there’s a hierarchy in animal needs: the birds have food and safety covered, so now they’re free to focus on and obsess over sex. Maybe I’m too much of a cynic and it’s really about finding that special connection, but that’s pretty doubtful. Here or there, the male’s egoistic display is undeniably piteous and questionably futile, especially the poor chap who’s left to dance alone, with no audience to gauge and accept him.
I can’t help but wonder just how far off from this vain display we, as the human species, really are. With technological advances, we can accomplish more than ever. For many of us, while we may struggle from paycheque to paycheque, the threat of homelessness or real hunger is pretty distant. We grumble through our days, punching in and out of work, of diets, of relationships. And then, finally, we come home to our eternal friend and confidante: our computers. And thus begins our own futile dance and display ritual.
We boot up, we log in, we game, we search for that perfect 10 on lavalife or match.com, we bid on useless items for a bang and a buck, and then we post every aspect of our trivial little lives on facebook, myspace, and personal blogs. Perhaps I’m just a twinge jaded, but these photo-peppered, playlist-laden pages seem a Bird of Paradise dance of their own rite.
But if the Birds of Paradise have a hierarchy of needs, what makes the cut to our list? And how far down it can we travel, ticking off boxes?
I struggle to define every aspect of my life; it’s a symptom of lonely, educated, comfortable lives everywhere. When I log in to any of the social networking sites with which I’m affiliated, I’m bombarded with information I wasn’t seeking and don’t necessarily want: Someone is doing homework and his mood is bored, Another is suffering from her menstrual cycle and is damning all men, Another is lamenting the loss of her third “love” this month and needs to whine at someone. I can’t help but ask myself from time to time why do I care? Why can’t you just keep it to yourself and trudge on like the rest of us? It seems that people used to stand more readily on their own two feet and be far less needy. Where, oh where, has my perfect little line between public and private lives gone?
Ten years ago Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks worked on a movie called You’ve Got Mail. Horrifically inane and clichéd otherwise, the movie did touch on two points of personal interest: public versus private lives and the propensity for humans to journal and share their experiences of the human condition. The extent of the movie’s depth seems to come in one scene, during which Ryan recognizes her need to throw a line out into the void between human interactions. She writes to Hanks:
Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life. Well, not small, but valuable. And sometimes I wonder: do I do it because I like it, or because I haven’t been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn’t it be the other way around? I don’t really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void. So good night, Dear Void.
Many, more literary, allusions can be made to our need to immortalize our existence and bridge the gap between one mind and another. One of my favourite poems is Joyce’s “Sailing to Byzantium,” in which (among other things) he admits his earnest desire to immortalize his life and work. Journalism, in which I have a vested interest, is based on the notion of bearing witness.
There is no question that the need to chronicle personal experience is as entrenched in the human condition as a gnat locked in amber.
I find no fault in this aspect of our intricate existence. What I find troubling is the notion of drawing a line between our public and private lives. Don’t get me wrong, I think there should be one; I just don’t know where to draw it anymore. In journalism, we’re constantly faced with the problem of right to privacy versus the right to a free press, and it’s commonly accepted that those in the public eye have a lesser right to privacy than the everyday people next door. As a journalist you’re aware: cross over the line and you’ll either find yourself slapped with a libel suit or working for a sleazy rag like Star or The National Enquirer.
So if it’s a question of ethics, I have to ask myself why so many people out there are defaming themselves with overly personal information and tired old emo poetry about how miserable and different they are. Why are they acting like the glitterati, bombarding their friends with flashbulbs and endless online postings every time they hit the town for a Saturday night pint? And why on earth am I humiliating myself by publicly posting these boring personal ramblings? Are we all really that desperate for attention? Should we sue ourselves for libel?
Like I’ve said, this masturbatory habit isn’t new. We’ve had columnists, musicians, writers, and artists since the dawn of time. Expressive language and self-awareness is what sets us apart from the rest of the animal kingdom, aside from thumbs. The trouble is that we’ve always had filters for our metacognition. Now, in the age of self-publishing blogs and social networking sites like Myspace, those rosy filters are gone and our histrionic tendencies are unleashed on the unsuspecting public.
Suffice it to say, I don’t like to watch my generation slander itself.
But here I am blogging, throwing myself into the public eye, so to speak, and thus casting my right to certain privacies to the wind. One of my excuses is that documenting my decision-making process might be helpful to some, should they be faced with similar options and happen to find these convoluted pages. But perhaps the honest truth is that I’m just grappling with the same problem everyone else is: how are we supposed to make meaningful connections in this time of technology-generated isolation?
Really the point of this blog won’t come across until I find myself in Sweden, desperate for a way to document my experience for those back home. I’ll try to avoid the melodramatic intricacies of my inner, private life on these pages. But I guess the Internet era poses a new problem for our species: the right to post versus the right to ignore. The ethics of this problem are far from my grasp at the present. This is just my own little Bird of Paradise dance, my attempt to fill the void. Watch and judge or leave and laugh, the choice is yours.
Tags: Animal Behavior, Bird, Birds of Paradise, Blogging, Emo, libel, Meg Ryan, Planet Earth, Public Private Life, You've got mail
