theory of mind

context is closeness

Hrvoje Majer | Letting It Go, Croatia

Louise Glück: In the absence of context, fragments, no matter how independently beautiful, grow rapidly tedious. That year, I wrote in my journal, I think I’ve lost context on you and your life.

You might be perceptive enough to recognize raw connection potential in individuals almost instantly with some forceful inevitability or fated-ness. That’s the instinctive-ness of human connection. But to sustain and maintain and grow entwined with another person requires effort and context. What time do they wake up and go to bed? Who do they call in a time of crisis? Where do they charge their devices? How do they eat their yoghurt? What are they pondering? You’re really good at this because you’re so observant. You know what I’m thinking when my eyes move away.

Context is very precious. Most times we hide our histories. We can barely narrate a cohesive pattern, even to ourselves. No one can know the murk from which we pulled ourselves out of childhood into adulthood. That slow and agonizing unravel. Fucking up and feeling ashamed of saying the wrong thing and hurting people and making usual mistakes — and then the slow emergence of yourself: one ecology of personhood. The same intellect, the same unbelievable ignorance. Oh wrenching heart, stubborn ego. Glory and vigor and fear and euphoria.

You’d know me if you knew how I grew up. A shy girl, nervous, watchful, bookish. In the mornings before school I’d walk into the trail by my neighborhood, those slender trees and the dull heat before the world woke up.

Those years. Groups of friends splintered to different places. People fell in and out of love. No one forgave each other then everyone did eventually. Some people are a gentle and fond in my memory like a blurry lullaby. You’d recognize the melody anywhere but you’ve forgotten the words. I still remember their mom’s names. A familiar face on instagram. S and I reunited after 7 years in London and her eyes had the same twinkle to it. So I guess people don’t change? Or some core part remains sturdy over time. I guess that’s why I believe pure love never dies, we just stop updating the context that feeds the immediate feeling.

On a podcast Esther Perel talks about cornerstone and capstone relationships. Cornerstone relationships are people who occupy one very volatile point in your life. You are still fluid and becoming, raw and uncertain, not self-assured yet that the thing you are doing has any weight or significance. Part of the preciousness of this relationship is its pliability. For softness is great. Two branches stretching toward the light. Not a process of addition, but of generation. You shape me. I shape you. Part of your soul morphs to fit another, and is irreconcilably changed. I still think we’re in the cornerstone part (for the record).

Another concept I’ve always liked is theory of mind. Children learn at some point between 3 and 5 years old what they believe as factual about the world isn’t necessarily what other people know or believe.

Funny how we learn it begrudgingly. You can feel something so strongly, feel its absolute truth, and still recognize another person might not experience the same moment in the same way. Perhaps some form of unrequited understanding? I read Intermezzo over the week: both male characters contain a powerful yearning to speak and yet are unable to express the strength or complexities of desire toward the women in their lives. They presume context and act accordingly. This causes a lot of heartache. Isn’t that where we go wrong all the time? We lack the courage to ask. I’m often afraid. The point is I’m getting more courageous over time.

How do we begin to build shared context with each other?

It starts with a book we read together, that salt sea-scent you wear, the depth of laughter in your throat. But okay. More than that: how you grew up in that small claustrophobic Americana suburb and your relationship with your parents, how you yearned for escape and when you found it in a pocket of California you didn’t know what the hell to do with all that freedom. And your complicated relationship to God and food and money and heartbreak and agency. AI might atrophy every ability I have but I’ll still read your movements like a secret language. How you hold tension in your jaw, and how your eyes shimmer when you find it hard to relax. I care about the simpler things too: the hymn of routine, heating up leftovers one night and artichoke pizza at Che Fico the next. The ripeness of San Francisco in October, so warm that it melts right in your hands. All of it, for context is closeness.

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PPPS: I started a new adjacent Substack for more conceptual writing on my learnings in venture capital and technology (my day job)! It’s called timeless notebook. It’s slightly different from my more personal/introspective pieces and leaning more into my experiences and thoughts meeting companies. The goal is to merge both technical and poetic. Join me if you’re interested.

Concept of timeless notebook comes from Christopher Alexander’s architectural theory book “Timeless Ways of Building” in which patterns that are alive are the product of intentionality, craft and nested design principles. Building in a timeless way results in places (and products) that feel alive and contain vitality.

One of the most moving moments in my life, was also one of the most ordinary. I was with a friend in Denmark. We were having strawberries for tea, and I noticed that she sliced the strawberries very very fine, almost like paper. Of course, it took longer than usual, and I asked her why she did it. When you eat a strawberry, she said, the taste of it comes from the open surfaces you touch. The more surfaces there are, the more it tastes. The finer I slice the strawberries, the more surfaces there are.

Christopher W. Alexander, The Timeless Way of Building