On Connection

I was walking along the street one day when I saw a short prisoner climbing down a ladder. As I passed, he turned towards me and gave a me a little smirk.

I thought to myself, "Well that's a little condescending."

My friend and I play this people-watching game where we make up stories -- or just one giant story -- about random strangers. We try to make each individual's story fit his/her actions and appearance as closely as we can. We also mix in a lot of connections between the different stories. That guy over there is looking so worried because he lost his wallet, and -- look! -- there's the thief that stole it. The two females standing near each other, talking on their cell phones, are actually long-lost sisters. That group of people are long-ago college friends, getting together for a reunion. One of them is a construction worker; that one is a model; another one deals drugs. The woman with a clipboard over there is a political strategist who rose to the top by having sexual relations with that man.

(We tend to get carried away pretty quickly.)

Picture unrelated.

Anyway, it's fun. My favorite part is when we connect two unrelated stories -- there's something cool about watching the tales of these random, unaffiliated people intertwine. Sometimes, we'll introduce a character into our narrative, forget about her, then bring her into the story much later. Sometimes, two big arcs collide and form a single, overarching drama.

As I'm inventing stories, I think about human relationships and connection. I think about the fact that it's likely I'll never meet the people I'm talking about, that I'll never even see them again, yet I am, for the moment, connected to them. I picture every person's life as a nondescript white line, flying around, intersecting and interweaving with other lines, parting ways, rejoining. I like the idea of two stories merging into one, each retaining their own originality and uniqueness, but still influencing the other. I like the idea that we can spontaneously become a part of someone else's story. I like the idea that two stories can separate, each having made the other one better.

I think about the fact that each of us is the main character of our own story.* So many different lives, all distinct, all with different struggles and failures and redemptions and romances and intrigues, yet still the same on some fundamental level. Connected, if by nothing else, by our humanness. Connected by our mere existence.

I think about the power and necessity of compassion. I think about the tangled, complicated mess of a single human life. I think about how many people there are in the world: Plumbers, musicians, painters, writers, teachers, archaeologists, religious fanatics, Democrats, paranoid schizophrenics, h8erz, Zionists, magicians, pundits, collectible card game designers, failures, Vegas high-rollers, Buddhists, Wal-Mart employees, swimmers, vampire hunters, quidditch players, people who park in the handicap spot even though they're not handicapped, locksmiths, people who clog up the hallway at school, pet store owners, parents, skydivers, trapeze artists, people who blog, and I realize they're all in the same position I am. We are all trying to make sense of life in our own ways. And I realize it's the connections between us that make life meaningful.

Then I realize, damn, there are a lot of people in the world.

According to Wikipedia, Kumbh Mela is the largest gathering of people in the world. Over 100 million Hindus gather to bathe in a sacred river. This is just a small fraction of the crowd.

I'll leave you with this Youtube video.

-Me

*Sometimes, when I watch a movie, I make up a story about an extra. That flower shop owner in The Room, for example. She's sure to write an intriguing autobiography.