Writing feels more cathartic in nature than a triumphant demonstration of one’s fully-realized understanding—instead, writing documents the process of me asking questions that require more than a few quick, affirming glances on Quora before the prompt to sign-up pops up. These are the questions that often open up a few more cans of worms without the insurance of an answer by the end of practice. The final result offers a half-baked, Occam’s Razor type of explanation: perhaps the most straightforward, simplest explanation should suffice as a band-aid for now.
Since graduating from the shallow currents of teenagehood into the whirlpools of adulthood, I’ve been presented few pills that are difficult to swallow and harder to make peace with: to acknowledge the lack of right or wrong decisions, only reactions to actions; to also make room for extraneous, attenuating factors that do not guarantee a successful output just because I invest time and effort. Within a bubble, success was once empirical and objectively quantifiable—like badges, they were vital towards building a foundational sense of worth, ideally snowballing into a more unshakable confidence.
Purpose seems to be a revolving factor behind why we do what we do, be it in pursuit or acting out of purpose. Under the guise of personal development, the hours I put in at work I quietly acknowledge as a monetary exchange for me to indulge in worldly pleasures and provide a sense of financial security; 1– 2– 3– 4– inhale, 1– 2– 3– 4– exhale, the biopsychological equivalent of an emergency break I use when I think I’m about to come into a sudden mental halt. As a set of deliberate actions conducted to achieve a specific goal, no purpose can exist without intention. And yet, intentions falter either through incongruent behaviours or subjected to alternating perceptions.
“I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you, that was not my intention,” a non-apology as such demonstrates the intention-perception gap perfectly. As the aggressor attempts to clarify their intentions as being non-offending, the victim is not at all fixated on their distinctions but rather the consequences of these performed actions. Behaviour is never always perceived as intended, and I sometimes grapple with the disparities between perception and intention, sometimes lost in context, oftentimes clouded by my intended narrative, a simmering stubbornness and keenness that result in reading too much into a situation but also seemingly never enough. There is the casual act of kindness from a crush, conveniently perceived as a romantic gesture exclusive only to ourselves; like shrapnel, the words that my mother wholeheartedly intended as a declaration of concern and love that scrape their way through my system. According to their copywriters, the rose-scented sampler that was intended to imbue a “disconcerting sense of mystery” reminds me of a distant memory my mother putting me to bed as a child, scent emanated from the old T-shirt she wears, a damp coolness that resulted from constant humidity and an evening of chores. Not one to partake in acts of vanity, she isn’t the fragrance’s intended audience and yet I’m still presented with a familiar, non-exact memory, my senses washed over by a sweet, warm musk.
There seems to be a vacuum that exists between intention and perception. Like the slow replies from a busy person that reads disinterested, no matter how good one is at assessing the situation or how explicitly behaviour is executed, the inability of words to travel through vacuum opens up a void of uncertainty. “What do you think he means?” we ask anyone but the person in question. Body language, non-verbal communication, social cues—anything quieter than a whisper takes over, a dynamic constructed of cleverly-made assumptions. For the risk averse, the confidence interval shrinks. I find myself inhaling a mouth full of air while conjuring a sentence in my head, only to crumple it out in the form of an exhale. The crush in question could perceive our eager responses as a form of platonic reciprocity or could choose to ignore if it misaligns with their intention; as I am home staring into the set of mono-lidded eyes that gave me mine: how do I question their intention if all I read is conviction? If they, by virtue of their conviction, believe their word is law, then how would I find the opportunity to subvert their beliefs beyond the space where sound does not travel?
Navigating through the vacuum between intention and perception is what I imagine what an improv set feels like without any prior knowledge of a character. There are the ‘Yes, and?’ dialogues we have explicitly, and then there are other given, unspoken rules of not breaking the fourth wall to reference the uncertainties within. “Can we be clear? What kind of role would you like to play and how can I best support you?” come across as forbidden phrases that should never be muttered, an achilles heel that exposes our egos as imposters who don’t know that they’re doing—a facade that’s no longer perfect.
By virtue of definition, perfection stands to be a mental antithesis towards putting in effort—perfection implies a state of being complete as is, effortlessness. Calling someone “low effort” versus “effortless” brings upon a very different response. As an example, The No-Makeup Makeup phenomenon, while personally I, and many other Glossier-wearing folk understand the aesthetic and personally subscribe to not only demonstrates the paradox but also manages to achieve both ends of the spectrum. It is a deliberate performance towards a personal idea of perfection with the promise of looking like we did not try at all. When used together, Perfect and Natural creates almost a double-binding effect that has distorted my perception of normality:
He’s perfectly natural
He’s naturally perfect
The former conjures the idea that he is all natural while the latter implies that his perfection is God-given. If we, in our natural, default state is considered the norm, does the notion of being naturally perfect in a marketing sense imply the existence of being naturally imperfect (and god forbid, exist outside the norm)? Following a new insecurity, a new marketing opportunity arises, and now we get to find ways to fill up the void. And if perfection no longer requires any further refinement nor effort, do we as the audience perceive perfection as a striveable state of being or an unattainable, neverending rat race? I’m reminded of a Facebook post of a friend critiquing those who alter their appearance with makeup, the “take her swimming on the first date” sort. His intention of championing “natural beauty”, to me reads incongruent among his usual slew of gym-rat antics, also another form of appearance alteration—so where do draw the line at authenticity, and who gets to decide what is natural? For those who deliberately pave their way towards making visible changes, when do we decide if they are tryhards or justify their effort?
Trying is admirable at most.
Achieving something effortlessly is aspirational.
And boy do we try—our unimaginative attempts at expressing interest through fire emoji reactions; the incessant questions posed to a romantic prospect on what they last had just to remain within their atmosphere of attention; the next batch of “Hi, hope you’re keeping safe” emails as follow-ups going straight to your client’s Junk folder. All of the above pose a conundrum, not only potentially exposing ourselves as trying individuals that come across too deliberate or overly eager, none are considered positive perceptions. For every Law of Attraction kind of advice received can also be easily countered by a polarising school of thought: the more you want it, the lesser you’d get it. The idea of trying too much, but not enough showcases the perplexities and paradoxes that exist in us: it is a non-judgemental, matter of fact that does not make us hypocrites across the leather upholstery in a vegetarian’s vehicle or wanting to move out to practice a more sustainable lifestyle with mason jars and compost bins. As beings that are impossibly binary, there is no absolute way to quantify our thoughts, feelings and actions across the different planes we exist on. Helpless and hapless at times, I continuously question if I have prepared myself enough to strike the right chord, to portray effervescence while remaining suitably calculative. These are times I remain in standstill, waiting for the right, full step to emerge before going up the escalator.
While this piece may risk oversimplifying nuances and our ability to contextualise without verbal communication, there will be plenty of instances where we recognise and accept each other’s futile attempts in downplaying their efforts while cherishing them for it. Would I be as quick to diffuse my personal struggle with unadulterated care like I would with a friend’s casual disdain of their supposedly textured skin and sinewy limbs? If not, what does that show? To play Devil’s Advocate, would both intention AND perception be considered ego strokes as we continuously place ourselves on a pedestal towards perfection, potentially giving ourselves an edge up in a downward comparison with others’ we have successfully coaxed into a state of acceptance?
LJ’s Try-Hard Model (2020)
If that is the case, where do we draw the line between self-improvement and setting ourselves up for imminent disappointment all the while being capitalised on our insecurities? The coffee-stained grin is noticeably yellow against my white T-shirt, how do I then eject myself from the shame for not already having optic white veneers, or questioning my authenticity if I edited it away, although knowing damn well my peers may do it too. Coupled with the deafening uncertainty in how differently I’ll be perceived, the dichotomy that exists between both extremes that coexist, of tireless deliberation under the guise of performative effortlessness has oftentimes placed me in a loop of guilt and shame.
As I’ve chuckled at peers in high school for earnestly asking how does one talk to girls, I find myself questioning the roles I now play in a similar rigor: Eager to quantify a problem statement, even more eager to graduate from an action plan. Like a tightening grip on a Chinese finger trap, change that’s forcefully manufactured has placed a laboratory setting in reality, as I find affirmation through the form of rigid tests and quantifiable grading schemes. As mindfulness descends into obsession, the hoodie disintegrated before my eyes into a puddle of mustard, the tactility of the soft cotton registers as a comfort sensation, a familiar item now a foreign sight: a network of thread, slightly scuffed and pilled.
In a simple exercise like wrapping dumplings I am once again reminded of how much filling a circle of kneaded pastry can fit: too much distorts the neat, proportionate pleating as it busts out at its seams, when understuffed it risks looking like a haphazardly-wrapped wonton. For an idea deeply embedded into pinning our fluctuating sense of worth, there seems to be an ongoing subscription that feeds the narrative of achieving success while appearing effortless. A lifetime of constant reinforcement through parenting and advertising, not only is it difficult to unlearn, but perhaps comes across a lot less painful to portray that we get to carry ourselves with a fleeting casualness that moves mountains with a raise of an eyebrow than to depict life in toil. While a mixture of pork and vegetables would taste the same regardless of presentation, the prettiest dumplings have taken considerable less rigor to seal up its edges than one that’s overstuffed. Much like the mixture of extraneous factors in life, consistency in preparation and execution remains the most challenging as the same spoon I hold would never yield just the exact amount in a scoop.
If that is the case, where do we draw the line between self-improvement and setting ourselves up for imminent disappointment all the while being capitalised on our insecurities? The coffee-stained grin is noticeably yellow against my white T-shirt, how do I then eject myself from the shame for not already having optic white veneers, or questioning my authenticity if I edited it away, although knowing damn well my peers may do it too. Coupled with the deafening uncertainty in how differently I’ll be perceived, the dichotomy that exists between both extremes that coexist, of tireless deliberation under the guise of performative effortlessness has oftentimes placed me in a loop of guilt and shame.
As I’ve chuckled at peers in high school for earnestly asking how does one talk to girls, I find myself questioning the roles I now play with in a similar rigor: Eager to quantify a problem statement, even more eager to graduate from an action plan. Like a tightening grip on a Chinese finger trap, change that’s forcefully manufactured has placed a laboratory setting in reality, as I find affirmation through the form of rigid tests and quantifiable grading schemes. As mindfulness descends into obsession, the hoodie disintegrated before my eyes into a puddle of mustard, the tactility of the soft cotton registers as a comfort sensation, a familiar item now a foreign sight: a network of thread, slightly scuffed and pilled.
In a simple exercise like wrapping dumplings I am once again reminded of how much filling a circle of kneaded pastry can fit: too much distorts the neat, proportionate pleating as it busts out at its seams, when understuffed it risks looking like a haphazardly-wrapped wonton. For an idea deeply embedded into pinning our fluctuating sense of worth, there seems to be an ongoing subscription that feeds the narrative of achieving success while appearing effortless. A lifetime of constant reinforcement through parenting and advertising, not only is it difficult to unlearn, but perhaps comes across a lot less painful to portray that we get to carry ourselves with a fleeting casualness that moves mountains with a raise of an eyebrow than to depict life in toil. While a mixture of pork and vegetables would taste the same regardless of presentation, the prettiest dumplings have taken considerable less rigor to seal up its edges than one that’s overstuffed. Much like the mixture of extraneous factors in life, consistency in preparation and execution remains the most challenging as the same spoon I hold would never yield just the exact amount in a scoop.