Today, I want to discuss the topic of claustrophilia, an affinity for tight spaces. With tiny homes now being so prevalent, and "cozy homes" (and cozy rooms) being such a popular topic, it seems fitting that the lesser-known (fraternal) twin of claustrophobia should get some time to shine.
I want to share two experiences from my childhood. The first experience was rather traumatic to me at the time, and made me very afraid of being locked in small spaces for quite some time. A teenager had locked me in a shed at my friend's house when I was about six or seven years old. The second experience was remarkably more positive, and voluntary. At around the same age, we owned a hide-a-bed couch, and at the head of the couch, the head-portion could be lifted to recline one's neck. This created a small opening, and I used to enter into it and hide inside the couch. I remember this fondly.
In my mind, the second of these experiences is an attempt at mastery over an otherwise fearful phenomena: confinement.[^1] Much in the same way that children and adolescents oftentimes play with fire, I had toyed around and sought to reclaim these otherwise dreadful scenarios. Very often, I used to make blanket forts with my older sister when she was still in my life; even without her, I would wrap myself into a cocoon within a pile of blankets[^2], sometimes getting stuck. The experience of getting stuck was somewhat of a thrill; it was a controlled terror which would usually last just a few seconds before I managed to escape.
Looking back on it now, it seems clear that these experiences would later re-emerge in a latent form. This would crop up as a tendency to self-sabotage, just as I was close to some milestone. This would invariably lead to a social isolation, and I would restart with a new project eventually. I called it "new game syndrome:" just as one has much fun starting a new profile in a video game, because of the rapid progression, easiness, and fun of the earlier levels, I would start life again and again. One of the ways this cropped up was in destroying many of my written works, social media accounts, SoundCloud accounts, etc. Just as when I had swaddled myself deep within those layers of fabric, where I entered a "room" with only myself, I had done the same socially.
This brings me to one of my favorite past-times: logic and mathematics. I love immersing myself in a minimal system of axioms, a sort of intellectual confinement, and seeing what emerges. While doing this, I oftentimes listen to this video, in which rain drops hit the water inside a clay pot. It is interesting to see how a force of nature, usually beyond our control, can be confined, tamed, and made into a calming experience. It is also not lost on me that I am quite literally confined to my desk while doing this activity, in my room which I have begun to see as being like a "monastic cell."
Speaking of monasticism, I think that my claustrophilia may stem from an attempt to isolate out all of the non-essential elements of my world, leaving room for only myself and God - a direct line of communication. But, bizarrely, I have always been fascinated by densely populated cities and cozy-esque cityscapes. I have always been drawn more to urban destinations than natural ones, and this reaffirms the humanistic quality of isolation I am compelled to. It is far easier to be a background character in such a place. In much the same way, the pastime of formalizing some concept I have in my mind, using mathematical notation[^3] represents the pinnacle of density: to mathematize is to imbue a single character or term with as much semiotic density as possible.
Lastly, it is hard to avoid pointing out that this is a highly autistic thing - "claustrophilia," in the truest sense, taking aut- to mean self. There is a self-centeredness to this temperament, and I do not mean that disparagingly. Many autistic people, wittingly or not, cocoon themselves into micro-utopias by fixating on special interests which exclude vast swaths of the outside world. The selection of such interests, and the intensity with which they are harbored, furthers the difference[^4] between the self and the Lacanian "big Other." This is evident. But they also serve the dual purpose of creating a relatively closed system or world in which one can inhabit. Video games like Pokémon or shows like Phineas and Ferb are the exemplars of this phenomenon, with predictable loops that create variations on a single theme, but allow one to understand every occurrence within a structured pattern. My Name is Earl, with its karma list, is a personal favorite of mine. In the case of Pokémon, the dynamics are tightly structured, with a type-chart system, a Wikipedia-like numbered bestiary, and statistics that increase to create the sense of mastery.
Endnotes
[^1]: Chiefly, it is an attempt at mastering the womb confinement predating my birth, but I shall not belabor that point.
[^2]: I would also like to point out the connection here to active inference -- this was my literal attempt, whether I could verbalize it or not, at creating a robust "Markov blanket".
[^3]: Andrius Kulikauskas has called this "mathematical-fiction."
[^4]: I am tempted to say "alienation," but that typically has negative connotations. I do not wish to bring those to the table.