Benjamin Muir

To Know a City Completely was inspired by the limits of knowledge in science and academia, and the monotony of retreading physical environments in our daily lives. I’ve half-jokingly summed up the cryptic agglomeration of a piece to friends and colleagues by saying that it’s about being “old and jaded.” To which they inevitably respond, “how can you feel that at 22?”

Last year, I passed a Winter in my hometown of Seattle with almost no one to see, and little to do. To cope with restlessness, I found myself walking city streets at night. Everywhere I walked had some memory associated with my childhood or teenage years: my old high school, shops I browsed, neighborhoods and parks I used to frequent. Without a purpose in the city other than waiting for Spring semester to start, I felt trapped, reliving old memories over and over in a liminal and transitory space. School started, but the transitory feeling persisted. As I complete my major in English, I’ve become disillusioned with the academic institution that surrounds and shapes the literature I love. Although my professors would surely protest the observation, I’ve found that the more advanced levels of theory and analysis become increasingly esoteric and seemingly inconsequential. In my search for meaning in literature, then, as in my physical surroundings, the longer I spend searching for knowledge and completeness, the more arbitrary and less rewarding that search becomes.

A solution for me has been to concentrate on the small and local things in life, intentionally finding meaning in art and activities I perceive as less metaphysical. This priority shift can be surprisingly cathartic: reconnecting with nature, say, or reading a Victorian novel for pleasure instead of for analysis, means taking comfort in knowing that the world may never be fully rational. Musically, this means creating a sonic space in which any sound can happen at any time—even a wacky one— and yet be entirely dignified in its novelty.