Alex Shippee

In case you haven't read the first two parts (they're short) here they are. Part 3 won't make sense without them:

Tiny Cosmic Figure, Part 1
Tiny Cosmic Figure, Part 2 (Acedia)

My friends would say stuff like, “Darby’s is cool, but it’s nothing compared to this bar I went to in Spain,” or, “Don’t get me wrong, I like our friends here, but at home – where I’m from – we just have more in common.” I’d zone out when people start talking about that stuff and the tiny cosmic figure would scratch his head. He didn’t know how to react either, so we’d just wait.

The thing is, it’s all just a way to fight off some kind of spiritual torpor (Dante would call this acedia). That’s what I’m doing when I try to make a moment awkward instead of being polite. That’s what I did when I took an internship that demands 70 hours a week between work and travel. I knew it would be tough, but the tiny cosmic figure was silent when I was considering it. He didn’t comprehend what that entails because all it meant was that I wouldn’t be bored.

That’s why I don’t buy all that, “I was happy back when I was somewhere else,” or “I went to this place and it changed me.” That stuff may be true, but it’s always inflated. I think that’s why everybody talks about travel and why I instinctively tune it out.

But now that I’ve graduated, I don’t want to just keep living in Connecticut. I want to travel, but before that happens I’m going to take my tiny cosmic figure aside. I’m going to invite him outside my head and into the real world. We’re going to talk it through first.

I just don’t want to turn a good moment into a bad one by regretting where I am now.

My favorite moments are awkward moments. If I can’t make a situation enjoyable, the best I can do is to make it awkward. Generally, there are thousands of pounds of pressure pushing me to ruin something or to make something weird. Every so often though, I’ll see what I need to do – to be awkward and to keep people sufficiently distant from me – and I won’t do it. What happens in that moment is nothing short of miraculous.

Somebody will have said something that I think is dumb or obnoxious and I can prove it. I open my mouth to respond, but then I stop. A door in my head opens and some tiny cosmic figure invites me to enter. There, he shows me the consequences of my actions. What it looks like differs form moment to moment, but usually it’s people looking uncomfortable or kind of dazed or pissed. That tiny cosmic figure watches as I see this and makes a face like, “What do you think? Is it worth it?” I meet his gaze maturely, unsmiling and say, “No, I guess it’s not.” And I leave.

Back in the moment, I’m happy. I look around at the conversation going on around me and I chuckle to myself. “They have no idea,” I think. “I could have ruined this moment for them, but I decided not to.” I smile. “You’re welcome,” I think.

Other times, he gives me the go ahead, but not just a little. The tiny cosmic figure only comes out in big moments, so when he’s encouraging me, he’s not just looking up from a paper and saying, “Sure. Go for it, I guess.” He’s running from deep in my mind all the way to the front, waving his arms and yelling, “Do it! Holy fuck! Do that shit! Come on!” So, invariably I do it. He has about a 50-50 success rate (depending how the little guy’s doing that week) but I always follow his advice when he shows up because he never tells me to lie.

If he did, I promise I would stop.

When I usually go to my professors’ office hours, it’s to talk about an assignment or at least with a solid question in mind about some piece of literature. We’d go back and forth for a while until one of us would have to go to class, to either attend or teach. It was an invigorating experience to have a fast-paced dialogue with somebody who knew so much more than me and I’d spend the rest of those days exuberant with the afterglow. This semester, though, it has been different because I’m finishing my undergrad degree and leaving those professors behind.

Today, I had to meet with my philosophy professor about an assignment, but he was with somebody. I decided to visit with one of my favorite English professors and to ask her a question about my favorite book, Dante’s “Inferno.” We discussed it for a while, like usual, but we quickly switched to my plans for after college. I mentioned that, a couple years down the line, I might like to go to graduate school.

Every so often, for a reason that usually perplexes me, somebody will pay me a compliment. That’s what happened to me today. My professor told me she had confidence in my abilities and that she could write a great letter of recommendation for me if I would ever want it. My philosopher professor, whom I’ve known personally for the last two years, said much the same thing: he would love to write a letter of recommendation for me and thinks I’ll do great after college. I didn’t know what to say.

Compliments feel great. We guard ourselves against flatterers so much that we become wary of any praise or positive feedback. Occasionally, though, somebody in a position of authority will bestow you with a legitimate vote of confidence and it can be overwhelming. If it’s unsolicited, it feels even better. But compliments exert a sort of negative momentum that can be dangerous and keep you from moving forward. It’s important to not see them as compliments, but as encouragement that you’re on the right track and that you need to keep going.

If something derails you from continuing your effort to contribute to the world, even if it’s meant as a good thing, then it’s only doing you harm. Marcus Aurelius has a great line about how, “The object of praise remains what it was – no better and no worse.” More than that, genuine compliments or praise should inspire you to become worthy of that high estimation. I’ve been the worst of offender of savoring the sensation of praise, but as I’m about to leave college, my comfort zone, I have the encouragement of my professors to remind me that I’ll be alright, as long as I continue trying.