my understanding of existentialism as it relates to meditative practices/an account of the concert i went to this weekend

I've been trying to think of a way to put into words what I've been left feeling after the concert that I went to this weekend. I keep trying to wait for the feelings to formulate themselves properly into concepts so I can adequately write them down. But the more I wait, the less raw/visceral/cutting they become. And I don't want to lose that feeling, because that feeling drives transparency. 

I have rarely felt such a hunger for catharsis as I do now. But I know that it won't come, not fully at least, because I feel so unsettled. This frequently happens to me after witnessing/being a part of the beauty of natural environments and/or profound artistic and musical expositions. (I've written about a previous experience here.) But there is something about what I witnessed, what I was a part of, this weekend that has irrevocably changed me. I feel that the very matter of my being has been set to swirling in a way that it never has before. And it's terrifying. It's exhilarating, but mostly terrifying. I am so afraid that I will lose this feeling, this fear, this joy, this momentum. Which is why I have to try my best to write it down now even though I'm not too sure how to articulate or express what I am feeling. 


***long exhale***

This post can continue in one of two ways:

1) With an exploration of my understanding of existentialism as it relates to meditative practices, or

2) With an account of the concert I went to this weekend. 

I think I'll start with 2), as again, it serves as a more gradual jumping-off point.

An account of the concert I went to this weekend

This weekend I attended Elora Riverfest, a music festival in Elora, Ontario. I had never been to a music festival before in my life. (I know, I know.) Really, though, the entire reason I wanted to go was to see a band called Moon Hooch. Moon Hooch are a three-piece band who met at jazz school and got their start busking in NYC outside of art galleries and in the subway system. (I always joke and say they're the most underground band I know. Ha-ha.) Originally they started out as Mike Wilbur on sax, Wenzl McGowen on sax, and James Muschler on drums. They soon evolved to incorporate other instruments, such as synthesizers, EWIs, and pylons. (Yes, pylons.) Their later albums incorporated elements of electronic music, vocals, and post-production, but to this day they still maintain the guts and backbone of that three-piece sax-sax-drums combo that captivated audiences on subway platforms and on the sidewalks of NYC.

I stumbled across Moon Hooch a few years ago while hopping through videos of outstanding street musicians on YouTube for fun and inspiration. I came across this live video of them playing on a hill somewhere in Middle America and was just blown away. There was something that immediately just captivated me about the music. I think it was the combination of the incredible musicianship coupled with the raw screams and visceral pounding created by the instruments. I couldn't believe that it was just three people with acoustic instruments creating this sound, so powerful despite the quality of the audio recording. I couldn't believe that there could be such a perfect combination of instrumental mastery, unbridled aggression, jazz complexity, pop sensibility, and the chugging drive of four-on-the-floor dance music. Something about this mish-mash of genres/feelings/styles, that made me want to grit my teeth and growl at the same time as close my eyes and float away, just got inside of me and stayed there. 

Looking deeper into the band and their catalogue of music, I was not surprised to learn that one of their albums was called This is Cave Music. Of course it was called that, because that's just what it was. Cave Music. I was interested also to learn that the band has a commitment to environmental sustainability (all three members are vegans and the band is officially carbon neutral) as well as meditation and spirituality (all three members are active practitioners of meditation, and they cite this as being intertwined with their music and a catalyst for their dedication and creativity). 

I continued to enjoy their music, often playing it at ungodly volumes while dancing around my apartment in my boxers (one time I thought my roommate was out while I was doing this, when she was actually home in her room - that was interesting for both of us) or in my headphones as I bopped down the street (it always takes every ounce of willpower in my body not to physically dance down crowded sidewalks as my brain and my guts are flooded with the incredible aggressive/beautiful sounds). I showed their music to many of my friends who were (I like to think) as impressed and moved. 

However, nothing could prepare me for actually seeing them live. Two days before they were meant to play at the 2018 Toronto Jazz fest in June, by the grace of me liking their Facebook page, I learned that they were to play ten minutes down the road from me. I nearly fell out of my chair. I couldn't believe that they were coming to Toronto, and what luck that I'd happened to see the Facebook post about it! 

My mandate, as always, was to Throw the Fuck Down. Dancing has been (for a significant part of my life - once I got over my crippling teen self-consciousness, that is) one of my favourite things to do, one of the best ways to connect with and lose myself in music, and perhaps the best way for me to to enter a state of Flow. However, that day the crowd had different ideas, perhaps with it being a TD Jazz Fest demographic and all. They were, to say the least, subdued. (It probably didn't help that there were tables all over where the dance floor should have been. Rookie move, Jazz Fest.) However, I noticed that there were two freaky-looking strangers bopping along next to me, so I recruited them to help me create an impromptu dance floor. We moved the tables out of the way, and before we knew it, the three of us became six, the six became twelve, and much of what happened after is a blur because I was just so caught up in the music, in the movement. How could anyone be still and listen to this, I thought? How could anyone not have the primitive creature living inside of them awakened at the sound of all this growling and throbbing?

That show happened to occur on the Saturday of Pride weekend, so I left the show just floored, but didn't have adequate time to process it, as I went to a pretty awesome Pride party after and threw down in a queer bar until 3am with some awesome people. (I danced so hard I broke the screen of my phone.) I thought for sure that that was going to be the only opportunity in a long while for me to see this band, as they are from New York and as we know, even most big US bands hardly deign to come to Canada, let alone the far lesser-known bands. 

So, you can imagine my absolute exultation when I learned that they were going to be playing at Riverfest! I promptly bought my ticket that day and booked my campsite. I had a bit of a time trying to find a friend to come with me, but honestly I was ready to go by myself if I couldn't find anyone. Luckily my good friend Shae was able to join last minute and came along on the adventure with me. 

As Saturday evening and their set approached, I repeatedly gushed to Shae about how I was feeling about seeing Moon Hooch again. "I'm ready." "Wait, I'm not ready." "Are you ready?" "Oh god I'm not ready." And so on. I didn't want to overshare and take away from an unswayed first experience for her, but at the same time I couldn't contain my excitement when I declared, "I am going to dance harder than I've ever danced in my life."

We made our way to the stage where they were playing and found a spot at the front. As they came onto the stage, the entire crowd (a large contingent of which were previously sitting on blankets on the grass), rose to their feet and pushed forward, beckoned and encouraged by those of us who had already taken up residence at the front. 

Here is where it gets hazy. I can't describe the experience of seeing them live at that performance. I just can't. 

Okay, I'll try.

It's so hard to describe the effect that their music had on me in that moment, on the crowd. As Shae put it later, "It was like something primal woke up inside of me." I danced like an insane person for the entire set. Looking at the crowd, it looked like we were all taking part in some sort of ecstatic Dyonisian ritual. Just madness. (The best kind of madness.) I felt that the music was inside of me, inside my guts, my lungs. The bass made the hair on my arms rise up. I felt like I was possessed. During a few moments, I felt like I left my body.  At one moment I was moved to tears. Frequently, I just had to lift my arms and stare upward at the sky in order to fully soak in what I was experiencing. I was as present as I have ever been in my own body, in my own being, in my entire life.

At the same time, little uncomfortable thoughts kept popping into my head. "How on earth can I have more of this in my life?" "Could I possibly create something like this?" "I wish I could create music regularly in my life." "There is so much that I need to change to get to where I want to be." But each time a thought popped up, I brought myself back. I told myself, "Stay immersed," and it was an easy order to follow because of the sheer visceral magnitude of what I was experiencing.

Afterwards, I had to lay down. (The security guard told me to get up, though, because it looked like I was drunk. I guess in a way, I was.)

Shae and I had the privilege of talking with Wenzl and Mike after the set. (I wish I'd gotten a chance to speak more with James - I don't know where he ran off to after their set. But I am pleased that we did get have a brief conversation that was 50% non-sequitur and 50% innuendo.) Most of that is a blur as well. I was so high, and not from substances. I was bold enough to ask them to sign my (sweaty, disgusting) band t-shirt, which they kindly did, and even bolder to ask them if Shae and I could buy them drinks after the show. They graciously declined, citing being hungry, over-stimulated, and tired. (Plus, Wenzl wanted to go into the woods and meditate for 5 hours. No big.) I really just wanted to talk to them more, and understand what could possibly make three human beings (who are really by all appearances just very approachable, nice, albeit passionate guys) have the capability of creating such magic, of doing something like that to a crowd. 

I wanted to ask so many questions. I wanted to know what it felt like to be able to move people in that way, to bring people together in ecstatic madness, in movement, in disinhibition and oneness. I wanted to learn anything I could about how to tap into one fraction of the energy that they harnessed and created that afternoon. I wanted to know how I could possibly even start thinking about creating something that visceral, that magical, that moving. 

An exploration of my understanding of existentialism as it relates to meditative practices

I've written about existentialism on this god damn blog so many times, what's one more time, eh?

I have considered myself to be an existentialist since I was quite young. In short, existentialism, as I understand it, involves belief in both a) the absolute meaninglessness of human existence from an objective point of view, couched in terms of the inevitability of death and the smallness of our lives against the vast canvas of the universe, and b) the absolute power of any given subject to find and create meaning in their own lives, from a subjective point of view, given our unbridled capacity for choice within our means, love, connection, passion, creativity, and wonder. 

My understanding of existentialism is that we are constantly seeking meaning in a world that is ultimately meaningless. The genesis of meaning always lies within us, within our actions, in what we choose, do, and are. Therein lies the overwhelming propensity towards existential anxiety. It's the despair and triumph that comes with absolute freedom; the flip-flopping between the sense of empowerment and the sense of disempowerment that comes from the very same idea: That "I alone am responsible for myself."

While my previous posts on this topic have focused on concepts such as the awareness of death, balancing narcissism and nihilism, and the importance of finding meaning and purpose in life, I would like this time to focus on the concept of striving. I touch on this in a previous post, which I will very gauchely quote now: 

The pursuit of meaning and fulfillment is necessarily asymptotic. Unless you believe in the kind of spiritual enlightenment espoused by certain systems of belief, Buddhism for example, it is difficult to conceive of a state of being of pure satisfaction and fulfillment. The spirit always strives, no matter what.

Striving is the natural state of the spirit. This is why happiness is so often short-lived; a great career move becomes mundane in a year, we feel a 'seven-year-itch' in long-term relationships, even travelling to new places can start to feel routine if you do it enough. Sometimes I even experience striving prematurely - seconds after making a good move in my life, a little voice will pop up and say, "You know you're just going to be dissatisfied in a few days." Thanks, brain.

I firmly believe that the natural state of the spirit is to strive. But, as I alluded to in that quote above, there are certain systems of belief that purport that, if existence is striving, and striving is suffering, then existence is suffering. And so, the only way to avoid suffering is to reach a state of non-striving. 

In Buddhism, the four Noble Truths (to my understanding) all surround this concept of striving - 

The truth of suffering (Dukkha)

The truth of the origin of suffering (Samudāya)

The truth of the cessation of suffering (Nirodha)

The truth of the path to the cessation of suffering (Magga)

Basically, the mandate of mindfulness, meditation, and enlightenment, is an absolute state of being and noticing, rather than desiring or wanting. It is an absolute state of non-striving. To me, this seems at odds with existentialism. If the natural state of the spirit is to strive, how are we to reach a state of non-striving?

There seems to be an impasse here, given the premises:

1) The natural state of the spirit is to strive

2) Striving is suffering

3) Therefore, the natural state of the spirit is to suffer.

4) Given the above, the pathway to non-suffering is non-striving.

But how the hell are we supposed to reach a state of non-striving if our natural state is to strive?! This is where my brain has always started to collapse. This is why I (until recently) I always rejected my ability to ever understand or partake in meditation. How am I just supposed to undo this natural state of my spirit, body, and mind?

With all this striving constantly bouncing around in my being, it's no wonder that I am a very anxious person. (As likely are you, but don't worry - existential anxiety is not pathological. More on that here.) I am a strong believer in Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) and practice it regularly, on myself and with the people I see in my therapy practice. Furthermore, as mindful and non-judgemental awareness of one's emotions is a cornerstone of Dialectical Behavioural Therapy (DBT), I've necessarily developed an understanding of how to practice this within a constrained space (namely, emotions). However, as I've stated, I also believe that the natural state of the spirit is one of striving. And this constant, unchecked striving, although normal, can get exhausting.

So a few months ago, after a lifetime of feeling existentially anxious, and after previously constantly rejecting the idea that mindfulness and meditation could be for me, I said to myself, "What the hell? Might as well try." 

I've been cultivating a regular meditation practice for the past few months now, and let me tell you, it's fucking hard. I have no idea if I'm doing it correctly. I've been trying my own personal practice unaided, following guided meditations, reading a guide by one of the masters, and attending free classes in Toronto. And I still don't think I'm doing it properly. 

But the nice thing about it is, it's okay if I'm not doing it properly. I can have the thought, "I'm not doing this properly," when I'm meditating, 1000 times, and as long as I respond with "That's okay, come back to your breath," 1001 times, I think I'm doing okay.

I think I am starting to come to my own understanding of how existentialism and meditation (or, states of constant striving and a state of non-striving) can co-exist. It's hard for me to articulate, but for me it all comes down to patience, self-compassion, humor, and perseverance. I still have a very loud mind when I try to sit, and my mind wanders constantly, but as long as I keep committed, keep smiling fondly at my folly, and keep bringing it back, I feel like I'm getting somewhere. Plus, there is enough evidence about the benefits of mindfulness and meditation to keep me committed for the time being, at any rate.

If this blog is anything to go by, my whole life, it seems, is about resolving (or at least just sitting with) dichotomies. Honouring the dialectic. Having A and not-A coexist, and coming to terms with this tension and the mind-exploding feeling this tension produces, without it completely undoing me. 

This is what I was reminded of at the concert I went to this weekend. I was as present as I've ever felt - as rooted into existence; as connected to the universe; as existing in pure awareness, sensation and movement, as I've ever felt - and yet, I still had that sense of striving bubbling up within me. "How to create something like this?" "How to have more of this in my life?" "I don't want this to ever end!" And so on. But each time such an unsettling thought bubbled up inside of me, I just told myself, "Be here, now." I couldn't help but be brought back to the moment, to the movement, to the music. I couldn't help but get sucked in to pure experiencing, due to the very (visceral, powerful, mind-blowing) nature of what I was experiencing. I was both there, and not. I was immersed, and I was observer. I was purely happy in that moment, and I was hungry for so much more. I was both striving, and non-striving. 

After the music ended I lay in savasana on the ground for a few minutes trying to just maintain my presence of mind. But it was so hard. The little striving-voice kept popping up, over and over. "It's over, how sad." "When is the next time I can have this?" "How can I create this?" "There is so much I need to change in my life to make this happen." And so on. But I tried, god I tried, to just come back to myself, to feel the endorphins swirling around my body, to breathe it all in.

Striving is suffering, but striving is also essential. It's what moves us forward in life, keeps us working towards our goals, working towards finding meaning and purpose in our choices and deeds. It keeps us learning and growing every day of our lives, it gets us out of bed in the morning.

Striving is essential, but striving is also suffering. It's important to just be present, sometimes. To remember that it's okay to just be, to not have to be anywhere, to be doing anything, to be working towards anything. It's important to remember that we can take a little time just to lie in the infinite cradle of the universe and feel at home there. 

There is perhaps more in common between existentialism and meditative practices than is afforded at first glance. I will continue to do the work to reconcile the perceived differences, find commonalities, apply these concepts to my life, and most of all, to practice hanging in the balance between two seemingly opposing philosophies, and sitting with that tension.  

failed meditation while watching a fire

I stared too long at the fire and now, looking up,
the stars are dimmer

I burned the map and watched as the ashes rose
and got caught in the trees

An idea begins to form inside me:
(and we're all just fucking swirling matter, and it doesn't matter at all)
But before I can grasp it, it's gone
Gone to ashes in my hands
Burning through my palms

With new holes to see through
I hold my hands up to my eyes
And for an instant I am calm
I feel, for one second, an inner stillness

(I watch the fire die, every last ember
And still there is so much more to burn)

Grasping at a moment of clarity
Trying to focus on the way the embers seem to breathe
Like they're alive
Like a lung

I try so hard to clear my mind
To feel only the breath on my lips
and in my lungs

Absolute clarity, so close
Absolute calm, a breath away

But I am clouded

I am indistinct

on being among the last generation to not have internet during childhood

I was born in 1990. I remember my family getting our first computer when I was 6 or 7. It was gigantic, ran Windows 95, and you had the option of starting it up in DOS. We didn't have the internet - I mainly used the computer to write stories on Microsoft Word, paint in Paint, and to play Pac Man. 

Then, in primary school, when we moved to the suburbs from Scarborough (east Toronto), we got The Internet. I don't remember the exact moment we acquired it, but I remember it quickly became a big part of my life. I remember waiting for it to dial up (I can hear the sound in my head right now), and needing to ask mom and dad if I could use it in case they were expecting any important phone calls. If I wanted to download anything I had to do it over dinner when they didn't want to receive any phone calls anyhow. 

I remember using it for MSN (a messaging platform from back in the day). I remember running home from school in grade 7 and 8 to chat with my friends, and to live my life on there, free from the prying eyes of teachers and parents. 

My first email address was broken_beyond_repair02@hotmail.com. Yeah, I was that angsty.

My parents were practically Luddites, so we were never a very technologically advanced family. To give you an idea, I didn't get my first cell phone until after graduating high school at 18, and I didn't get my first smartphone, with internet access/data (a used iPhone 4 S which I still use to this day, thank you very much) until 2016. 

I'm not going to sit here and tell you that the internet ruined my life, or that it has ruined life in general. Since you're here with me, I'd hazard that you already understand the benefits - the democratization of knowledge (especially with websites for free learning like Khan Academy or Coursera); social media to connect with family and friends who we wouldn't ordinarily be able to be in close contact with (shout out to my fam in Australia, who I have on What's App!); making more things more accessible to people with disabilities; the mobilization and amplification of a variety of marginalized viewpoints that would not otherwise have platforms; hell, there are even examples of social media being used to organize and mobilize revolutionary and rescue initiatives. 

I'm also not going to sit here and tell you that the internet hasn't ruined aspects of [my] life. I spend wayyyyy too much time on social media wasting my dwindling hours endlessly scrolling through shit I don't care about when I could be doing literally anything else; it makes me compare myself to others (to my endless pointless suffering); it makes me feel like I'm missing out on things all the time; it mobilizes and amplifies a lot of hateful viewpoints and provides a platform for hate groups to organize; it spreads a lot of misinformation; there's the idea of omniscience fatigue wherein we are so overloaded with instantly-accessible information that information itself becomes boring, etc. etc. etc. 

I remember my pre-internet brain. I remember playing with my friends in elementary school in the school yard, sans phones, sans internet, pretending that we were witches or the Spice Girls and going on crazy adventures while hopping over snowbanks. I remember needing to go to the library and look at books to do school projects. I remember teachers needing to ask if we had computer/internet access at home. I remember hanging out with my cousins with all the kids on their street, and stringing all of our toy cars and anything with wheels to the backs of our bicycles, putting barbies and beanie babies in them, and racing down the street, trying our best to make the toys fall out on a sharp turn. I remember making people out of pipecleaners, attaching them to plastic bag parachutes, and chucking them out the second-story window. I remember being excited to play lego and creating elaborate circuses with roller coasters and rides.

Not that this stuff doesn't happen with kids these days, of course. But I think that all of that wholesome, non-screen-related play and discovery is important to development. And back then, it wasn't an option. It was all we had. The negative implications for screen time on attention span, obesity, cardiovascular health, etc. are well documented. I don't want to be one of those old-timers who hearkens back to the glory days before invention X or Y, but I guess that's what I'm doing.

I think that my generation is unique in being among the few that straddles the Great Internet Divide (I'm calling it that, deal with it). I remember my pre-internet brain, and I didn't have the internet during many of my formative years. At the risk of sounding prideful, I'm pretty grateful for that. I think that I have a greater appreciation of nature, of face to face conversation, of creating art, of sticking my hands in the dirt, of the value of imagination and story-telling. All of this is of course anecdotal - I'm sure there are lots of folks born after the mid 90s who can lay definitive claim to these attributes as well. But I can't help but wonder if there's something inherently different about those of us who grew up without the internet, compared to those who cannot remember a childhood that was internet-free. 

I think even more jarring is the fact that we grew up in some of our most formative years without the internet, and then, boom, there it was. We were very lucky to have grown up along with it - it makes it far easier to understand technology and to be able to carve a worthy place out in the modern technologized world. I'm glad to have had my years as a young tot internet-free, and I'm also glad to have been able to learn how to live in this internet-laden world as I grew up. It's pretty much a win-win in my books.

I think this developmental history, wherein formative years of my childhood were internet-free, and my preteen years onward were internet-saturated, creates a strange neither-here-nor-there-ness in my identity. Unlike kids who grew up only knowing the internet, I feel like I long for my pre-internet brain. I'm nostalgic for it. More was a mystery in the world, I didn't feel bogged down with every single tragedy, and I didn't feel addicted to something that (like every addictive thing) both giveth and taketh away. People who grew up only ever knowing the internet may understand and appreciate its destructive potential, but they can't yearn for a life that existed previous to it, not having known it at all. At the same time, I am also so grateful to live in this time where information and viewpoints are so accessible, where I can be so connected with others, where I have access to so much. 

I don't think I would give this up if I could, and still part of me wishes that I never had access to any of this in the first place. Much of the inner workings of my mind include coming to terms with conflicting aspects of my identity. (Examples here, here, here, here, here, here, and here.) This, it seems, is no exception. 

city living, the institutionalization of nature, and primitivist tourism

I fucking love camping. It's January 3rd and I'm already looking forward to camping this spring/summer. (This -15ºC weather is certainly a factor in my being so forward-thinking.)

I didn't start camping until about five years ago. And I've only been portaging/backwoods camping one time (which involved a long paddle in a rainstorm with two friends and their friends who thankfully knew what they were doing and had the gear and know-how to not get us killed). (It was awesome.) My parents didn't camp. My dad dabbled in it as a youth but I don't think you could have paid my mom to sleep on the ground with the bugs or be anywhere you couldn't plug in your curlers.

I know a lot of people who are super into camping, and it's no wonder: The benefits of being in nature and, by contrast, the neurosis-inducing nature of city life are phenomena that are well-documented.

Most people, I think, benefit from/deserve access to natural settings. But there's something about being immersed in a forest, or being on the shore of a vast body of water, or standing at the foot mountain that feeds the soul in ways that a simple visit to the park won't do. (And here in Toronto we are very lucky to have access to relatively ample greenspace and water for an urban environment.)

One really shitty thing about working that 9-5 life is the scarcity of available time in which one can camp. Long weekends involve a mass exodus of cars to reaches (barely) further north. The time spent on the highway is often (always?) worth it but it's pretty counterproductive to the whole reason people go camping in the first place. Plus, campgrounds, gear, outdoor equipment, and the like are very expensive, increasingly so. So it's a shame that most people can't really access immersive natural experiences. One, they're far away and hellish to get to, and two, a lot of people just simply can't afford it.

In this way, the natural has become institutionalized. It involves booking campsites months and months in advance in order to get a spot among the throngs, booking precious time off of busy work schedules to get time away from urban environments, paying exorbitant fees and prices for a plethora of camping gear, and bumper-to-bumper pilgrimages on crowded motorways. The natural world has become embedded in the capitalist, workaholic, consumerist, urban landscape, despite being (supposedly) miles away from it.

This is further complicated when one examines the demographics of the typical camper. The population of people who can't/don't camp is, I think, largely made up of people of colour/immigrants.* Part of the reason for this might be cultural reasons (ie. hobbies and interests are mimetic, and if no one in your culture camps, you're not going to know about it or adopt it). But I think that a lot of this has to do with a) financial barriers to camping and the racialization of poverty, and b) the fact that a lot of immigrants to Canada who grew up in countries without the Canadian 'standard of living' and/or in conflict areas probably came to Canada to try attain a life that meant having reliable access to precious things like a roof, a bed, running water, heat, and electricity. I'm sure the idea of paying to not have any of these things is absolutely ludicrous to some.

Which brings me to my next point: I think that camping is really just a 'lite' form of primitivist tourism.

A lot of people in urban areas in the developed world like going away to wild places and seeing ancient structures on indigenous land. Some tourism companies and endeavours strive to incorporate indigenous and perspectives in tourist practices, and some even pay them a living wage. (Hold your applause, please.) In short, people will pay to leave their developed country to sleep in tents alongside indigenous tribes on protected land next to ancient structures. They will marvel and speak to one another in reverent tones about how "simple and beautiful" the lives of these people are, and they will fetishize certain aspects of more 'primitive' cultures while ignoring elements of hardship, shortened life-expectancy, exploitation, and ecological devastation. A lot of the time, tourism is part of the perpetuation of these harmful elements, no matter how 'ethical' it is. It's a matter of trying to balance costs and benefits (both of which are plenty).

I marvel in the joys of camping, I think, because I never have been forced to sleep on the ground, with no heat, with no electricity, no amenities. Camping is nice because I can leave and go home. The same goes for primitivist tourism - I'll pay to sleep in a hammock in the jungle, being led to an ancient structure by an indigenous guide through indigenous land, and I'll marvel at the simplicity and beauty of the life there - and then I'll go home to my first world country with my first world dwelling and my first world life. I love it because I get to leave it behind.

As I so eloquently began this entry, I fucking love camping. I also fucking love travelling to places and doing amazing things. I am extremely privileged to be able to experience both, a few times a year. I have to accept that camping is a form of primitivist tourism. And I have to accept the fact that all primitivist tourism comes from a place of privilege. And that a lot of tourist practices, despite their many benefits, can also be very harmful. And I need to sit with that. It's fucking uncomfortable, but I'm going to keep camping and travelling, so the least I can do is acknowledge my role in potentially harmful systems and do my best to mitigate the ill effects.

I would so like for immersive natural experiences like camping not to be institutionalized like they are when they are near to urban environments. But I guess the only way of doing this is to move way out into the boonies where I can camp in my backyard for free. But alas, I'm not about to move from the city any time soon. So I guess I'll keep spending time in the institutionalized part of the natural world that I am lucky enough to have access to.

Which reminds me: It's January! I should get on booking my campsites for June.

*Although: These days I am seeing more and more POC and foreign-born people partaking in camping. As I believe camping is a sign of relative affluence, I think this change in demographics (if it is indeed happening and not just anecdotal) is a sign that foreign-born people in Canada/POC are gaining more access to rites of passage that were previously relegated to Canadian-born, upper/middle-class, white Canadians. We are seeing this demographic shift (veryyyy slowly) in other realms of our society as well.