Identity

Although I desired to keep posts on this section of the site from reading like journal entries, perhaps that is an unreasonable goal when discussing the matter of my recovery and evolving mental state. Nearly a month has elapsed since I last wrote here, perhaps the break was necessary. The month has been turbulent, characterized by leaps forward and steps backwards.

After several months in which I somewhat despondently attempted to regain some form of technique musically, I finally reached a point physically where I am able to play with sufficient stamina, both physically and mentally that I can work seriously towards musical goals. Still my attention span, mental quickness and memory are shadows of former years, but progressing steadily.

An interesting cycle has emerged. On the way down (as my disease progressed), I would lose ability, then work harder to accomplish the same tasks. I continued performing the same sorts of tasks but with far greater difficulty. Now, on the way up, as my mental faculties reemerge, I re-calibrate my expectations, performing the same tasks but shifting my expectations regarding the degree of ease with which these tasks can be performed. The fascinating feature of this pattern, to me, is that overall the level I demand of myself exists mostly independently of my ability at any moment.

This idea, that changing mental abilities and the level of activities – what books I read, which music I listen to, the food I attempt to cook – are largely independent raises an important question. What determines them if not who I actually am and of what I am actually capable at the moment?

I believe this sense of what I can and should do flows not from my actual abilities at any given moment but instead from a deeply ingrained sense of self. Upon further investigation, this idea makes fantastic amounts of sense. Perhaps my personal fluctuations in mental ability are extremely rare in any person of my age, and most of those who do experience a rapid deterioration of mental capacity probably never experience any recovery that would allow them to talk (or think) about it. But, on a much smaller scale, every individual has substantial shifts in capacity from day to day. It then must be necessary for pragmatic reasons for each person to have a sense self that exists independently of the actual 'self of the moment'. How else could someone decide at any moment what long-term responsibilities to take on? People require a sense of self that is considerably more stable than the self itself,

When I reached my deepest trough of cognitive decline and still forced myself to read, I didn't revert to the books on which I learned to read as a young boy, even though they would probably have been better suited for my level of comprehension at the time. Instead, I attempted to read Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, continuing with the last book I had been reading before my sickness began to rage in January. Only much later, weeks into my recovery and after considerable conscious deliberation did I recognize that I had to read books more suitable to who I was at the moment and not who 'I really was'.

What then is the nature of this more permanent self-image? How quickly does it evolve? Can it be altered? Does it settle in at a certain age, condemning all of us to spend the rest of our lives as whatever we have determined ourselves to be?

As I reclaim my brain, gradually bringing old activities back from the brink and into the possible, even easy, I aspire to re-calibrate my sense of what I can and ought to be doing to more fully use all of my mental capabilities than I did before embarking on this flirtation with dementia.

Keeping this public record of my thoughts and experiences has forced me to consider the issue of anonymity. Originally, instinctively, I posted anonymously. The more prudent route. Eventually, two things inclined me to reconsider this choice. First of all, several discussions with friends lead me to wonder whether anonymity or exposure presents a greater obstacle to honesty. Also, as my ability to play the saxophone and compose music resurfaces, I have thought about the role that these writings, thoughts, experiences have in my art.

Honesty

Issues concerning anonymity and honesty occur to me along along two dimensions. The first is the conflict of interest. Situations in which one's public association with writing could affect what is written. The second is accountability. By having to put one's name on an argument, a writer must carefully consider what is written. Perhaps this extra validation serves a purpose besides to create conflicts of interest, forcing the writer to refine an argument, making sure that he/she will be able to defend it.

Faceless writing removes many conflicts of interest. Firstly, it affords a writer the ability to put aside his reputation. Without fear of exposure, a writer needs not fear the specter of association with any particular thought or view. Everything is on the table.

Equally important, in more personal writing, anonymity removes the incentive to lie for vanity's sake, underplaying shortcomings, overplaying achievements. The writer can lay bare his life, knowing that he/she isn't going to gain or suffer in life for having depicted himself/herself in any particular way.

On the other hand, an exposed writer can benefit from the added scrutiny that accompanies taking credit for one's work. Having his/her identity tied to his/her writing could actually serve to keep a writer honest. In the absence of any consequences for flawed arguments, to what standard is a writer held? Exposure and the accountability it entails could force a writer to refine arguments, trim the fat off of unnecessarily heavy-handed or offensive offerings.

This raises the issue of omission. There are times when exposure and the prudence it requires push a writer to withhold an argument, point, or even an entire paper. Three questions need to be asked. How damaging are these omissions? Are the sorts of things that would be omitted better left unsaid? If these omissions compromise the work, is the effect damaging enough to override the benefits of exposure?

I think the answers to these questions are highly dependent on context. A writer in a country with a stifling lack of freedom might find it impossible to write in the open without sacrificing everything he/she has to say. In other situations, it is conceivable that one might unnecessarily aggressively attack an idea or person when not filtered by some degree of judgement. As concerns my writing about art, for example, I think the things I could say that might compromise me are probably better left unsaid, not necessary to assert my ideas.

Art

On a more personal note, as concerns my own identity, I face a consideration external to my writing. As a saxophonist and composer, I necessarily lay bare who I am to some degree. As an artist, I believe strongly in the openness of the artistic process. Especially in jazz where process triumphs over artifact, I believe that the process and all that inform it are relevant to the experience of the art. To that end, my writings, both on and off the topic of art, inform my art. Even if hiding my writings were to present no obstacle to their honesty, would it compromise the honesty of my art?

After much consideration, and with even greater ambivalence, I have decided to incorporate the former home of my writings, spinachcrazyhotel.com, into my artist site under a Writing section.