the delusion manifesto
on revisiting california, the great goodness debate, and being story-oriented
Hello delusionals. I just returned from a 10-day excursion to California and soaked up enough vitamin D to survive the northeast winter that I am not built for. Controversial argument: The food is better in LA than NYC (I’m likely biased because I’m vegan). Admittedly, I was a bit melancholy leaving a place and people I called home for so long, especially with NYC being enveloped in cold, grey skies, but we push forward nonetheless.
In my last entry, I promised an essay on hyper-aestheticism, which I will not deliver today. This piece is still in the works, but I’ve been enjoying an extended break from internet discourse, instead letting my mind wander wherever it lands in the online or offline realm. Unemployment sure gives me a lot of time to think, which, fortunately, is my favorite activity. Instead of a well-researched piece of cultural criticism, today’s newsletter takes on a more contemplative and poetic form, which I explain below.
Recently, my mother, the woman who taught me how to write, asked me about the meaning behind the name of this publication. (Note: My mother started her own Substack, which you can check out here!) I told her I firmly believe everyone should be delusional. She didn’t love that answer. Shortly after, while flipping through the pages of an old journal, I came across an entry I wrote on delusion a year ago, before I even realized I was incubating the concept of this newsletter. At the time, I was still living in Los Angeles, where I began forming my idea of conscious delusion as a guiding principle. The following essay is a lightly edited version of that imperfect entry.
It’s both amusing and slightly mortifying to read the so-called “mediations” of your your younger self, but I can appreciate where 22-year-old Rowan was coming from. As always, I’m just spitballing here, so take what I have (had?) to say with a grain of salt.
To my mother’s original question, you’re getting an inside look into my personal musings – you’re welcome.
Welcome to the fifth installment of pure delusion, my delusion manifesto.
Rowan’s journal – January 24, 2022
Writing is one of the most delusional things a person can do.
I’ve been thinking a lot about delusion lately – the power of potential, the ability to check out of reality, the desire to seek something that isn’t there but could be from the right angle. Delusion gets a bad rep (sometimes for fair reasons), but I’m starting to think delusion is not only what makes the world go round, but also what makes us believe we’ll see another day. That the sun rising has any deeper meaning than its given scientific meaning. That anything means anything, really. (I’m going to go on a bit of a stream of consciousness here, so bear with me.)
The other day [friend 1, redacted] posed to me that most people settle for a good life because there is a threshold for goodness, while achieving greatness requires pushing beyond that threshold. “Good is the enemy of the great,” she said. “Which life do you aspire to have – good or great?”
Upon pondering her question, I connected her inquiry to my recent wonderings about delusion. Goodness is the American dream, for all its standards and conventions, while greatness involves seeing what isn’t there and creating something to bridge that gap – the delusion that life can be more than it is. Delusion, then, I declare is the conduit for greatness, meaning delusion – despite its connotation with mirage – is the worthwhile opponent to the goodness threshold. In the end, however, delusion without a tangible product remains a delusion, devolving into fantasy, ultimately leaving the creator stuck and dwindling in time.
Delusion is a balancing act: At once, it’s hope that the proper conditions will birth a better reality; at other times, it’s merely an escape from reality while life, left untended, crumbles and takes you down with it. Do I want a good life or a great life? That depends on how much delusion I’m willing to swallow.
Coincidentally, I had a similar discussion with [friend 2, redacted] a couple of weeks ago, where she was torn between feeling the need to chase something “more” in her career or settle for simplicity and happiness. She, like many of my peers, excelled in school and found the professional world to be a bit of a let-down. Her older sister told her to give up her dreams, accept a 9-5 job, and otherwise live her life. While not romantic advice, her sister’s words match the goodness threshold, which is sound logic, at the very least. In response to my friend, I noted how I currently work a 9-5, which is what it is, and I find my purpose elsewhere.
In the scenario of [friend 2, redacted], goodness and greatness are inherently linked to capitalism, so I take a further step back and ask: What defines the standards for goodness and greatness? Again, pointing to the conflict of [friend 2, redacted], which isn’t an uncommon one in America, these standards are conventionally measured by what an individual is capable of producing for capitalistic gain. Pushing the bounds of your capitalistic capabilities is where delusion can offer its services, as you convince yourself that more throttle will equal more value. Here, delusion will inevitably create burnout.
Goodness and greatness, though, are subjective and can be applied to any area of life, just as delusion can filter anything to be more (or less) than it is. This brings me back to my opening sentence: Writing is the most delusional thing a person can do. To write is to pause time, craft meaning from the moment in a near-dissociative state, and scribble such observations as concrete. I’m engaging in an act of delusion with every drop of ink marked on this page (or, at present, every character typed on this document). Joan Didion admitted to this phenomenon when she penned the famous line, “We tell ourselves stories to live.”
As I become increasingly aware of how my mind and body navigate the world, I’ve noticed how obnoxiously story-oriented I am. While I struggle to practically identify as a “writer,” I know my mind works like one, weaving and unweaving every place, object, quote, and sensation into an anecdote that builds upon the tapestry of my larger narrative. What’s “real” is up for debate, but does that matter if my product is good (great?) regardless?
One of my New Year’s resolutions was to romanticize my life more and, in essence, be more delusional. I crave the places and people that make me delusional. I think the writer’s block I began to face this time last year was not from collegiate burnout but from a lack of delusion – the inability to see the world for more than what it was. I had been too caught up in reality, too caught up in problems, to love my life. To love at all. And now I’m warming up to delusion again, the sun rising and microwaving the day’s start, a promised symbol of what can come.
It is tempting to derive some kind of maturity narrative here: eventually we sober up and grow out of our rash love of sensibility (i.e. red); eventually we learn to love more subtle things with more subtlety, etc. etc. But my love for blue has never felt to me like a maturing, or a refinement, or a settling. For the fact is that one can maintain a chromophilic recklessness well into adulthood. Joni Mitchell, for one, customarily chose her pigments for their intensity rather than their durability – a choice that, as many painters know, can in time bring one’s painting into a sorry state of decay. (Is writing spared this phenomenon?)
Maggie Nelson, Bluets, gifted to me by [friend 2, redacted]
Listening:
The Backseat Lovers, specifically “Maple Syrup” and “Sinking Ship”
Ezra Klein’s interview with L.M. Sacaras on technological criticism
Everything and anything Sabrina Carpenter… I can’t get that five-foot blonde and her lyricism out of my head
Lizzy McApline’s album five seconds flat
Watching:
Girls (2012)
I started Lena Dunham’s iconic HBO show sometime last year, forgot about it, and now have resumed.
The Fablemans (2022)
Spielberg’s latest semi-autobiographical film of his boyhood, which is, unfortunately, one of the lower-grossing pictures of his career, though it snagged some Oscar noms. I, however, loved it and recommend it to all. 9/10
The Tender Bar (2021)
Based on J. R. Moehringer’s memoir by the same name, this film is a sweet bildungsroman about a boy’s journey to becoming a writer, but I felt the ending was rushed and unsatisfying. 6/10
The Secret Life of Walter Mitty (2013)
I remember seeing this on Christmas Day 2013 with my family and haven’t rewatched it since. This short story-turned-film felt like appropriate company for my lack of employment and a pending year full of possibilities. Also, I’ve decided if any actor could be my father, I’d choose Ben Stiller (runner up: Peter Gallagher). 7.5/10
M3GAN (2022)
Lives up to the hype. 7.5/10
Reading:
Play It As It Lays by Joan Didion
Like, Comment, Subscribe by Mark Bergen
Blonde by Joyce Carol Oats
Bluets by Maggie Nelson (re-read)
Looking for:
Add me on Goodreads and/or Storygraph!
Thanks for indulging my delusions!
<3 Rowan
“ I had been too caught up in reality, too caught up in problems, to love my life. To love at all. And now I’m warming up to delusion again, the sun rising and microwaving the day’s start, a promised symbol of what can come”
I enjoyed reading this. It's so well written. More..more