Do The Thing You’re At

On immediacy

I went to see Louis CK perform at Symphony Hall in January of 20-whenever. I was actually not particularly enthused with the show; it had the odd bright spot but ultimately felt like playing to the lowest common denominator. (I learned way more about the elasticity of his asshole than I ever wanted to know.)

One of the morsels of twinkling wit he’s known for stuck with me, though; an audience member took out their phone and Louis CK happened to catch them, saying:

“No … what? Is that a phone? Put it away. Please. Really. There are people around you. You’re at a thing. Do the thing you’re at.”

If you’ve ever had one of those “whoa” moments, the ones that stop you in your tracks and you stand there catatonic and gauche as you process the blizzard of clarity slapping you in the mouth, that’s what happened. Do the thing you’re at. The aesthetics of the phrase sure don’t hurt, but the kernel of wisdom glimmering at the root of it has been lost to the azure glow of really needing to know what happened on Twitter.

I spent a week camping in the woods the first week of July at New England’s regional burn. (Terminology pit stop: burn = event in the spirit of Burning Man.) Even for someone as introverted and socially anxious as I am, seeing the woods transform from … well, woods to a village bursting with open inclusion, self-expression, and community was staggering. The bit I want to harp on, though, is immediacy. One of the key tenets of the ideas behind Burning Man is immediacy:

Immediate experience is, in many ways, the most important touchstone of value in our culture. We seek to overcome barriers that stand between us and a recognition of our inner selves, the reality of those around us, participation in society, and contact with a natural world exceeding human powers. No idea can substitute for this experience.

Translating from hippiese, it is a radical idea nowadays to experience now here. You’ll find it at burns and in some types of psychotherapy, but outside of that, what I’ve witnessed over and over is that most people don’t want to experience now where they are. They want to experience now elsewhere.

Why?

Every once in a blue moon, I go up to a tiny part of Maine forty miles due north of Skowhegan to go whitewater rafting with my family. You can’t get there from here. The Forks is a town of 35 people that got within range of cell reception barely two years ago, and the one big attraction is this camping space and the place where the Kennebec and Dead Rivers meet.

The owner of Three Rivers (they also do trips to the Class V rapids on the Penobscot, hence three) was thoroughly unhappy about the cell service coming through. He still doesn’t allow cell phones in his bar; if you need to take a call, go outside. His rationale is that people are paying him money to come up for a vacation — usually with family or friends — and he wants to see them spend time together.

Before the cell tower, the idea of disengaging from your vacation (I know) was a non-starter. Yet since they got cell reception, faces are too often lit ghoulishly from below rather than across the table.

Why?

We lose out too often on an immediate experience when we refuse to engage in what we’re doing. The risk of disappointment when the party is underwhelming or the local team lost the game sits heavy over the shoulder; the shuddering need for constant, low-level stimulation of some variety has usurped its way to an infernal throne. We’ve traded away the joy of immediacy, where moments of mundanity are proceeded by fluorescent flourishes of interesting that unfold, sweep you up ever so briefly, and then set you back down where you began leaving a taste in your mouth, a song in your ears, or a touch on your fingertips. We eat tiny slivers off the cake, unable to conceive of waiting for a full slice. We forsake immersion for the sake of dipping a toe in to see if the water’s still cold, oblivious to the fact that lakes don’t change quite so readily.

I went swing dancing last night for a friend’s birthday. The hourlong lesson, while useful and the instructor tenacious, was not enough to divest me of my ungainly inelegance. The lesson gave way to the general social dancing, where leads pair up with follows and Lindy Hop until they fall over. During the lesson, I had had a dance partner I liked quite a bit for his style and skill and sought him out. Initial nervousness was readily snuffed out by my friend’s cajoling to “go find him before the next song! Go!” and his response to my request was “absolutely!” with a kind smile. My dance skills were, per usual, sinisterly unskilled, though I avoided stepping on the poor guy’s feet, and I found myself glad I’d worn the twirly dress. “Thanks, Alana! Have an awesome night!” and then wandering off ended the five minutes.

I had considered hiding behind my phone, but no one would have asked me to dance had I done it, nor would I have ever had to face my own anxiety and approach someone. We dance through life doing this — never finding dance partners for the briefest of moments for the fear of asking or seeming as though you’d rather not be asked.

Ask people to dance.

Eat life by the slice.

Look across the table.

Do the thing you’re at.