Mush

I used to have a fine mind. 

It’s not like I was Einstein or anything, but I was certainly smarter than your average bear; I got excellent grades throughout my educational career; I was able to write lucidly on any number of topics; and I could hold forth at length on subject with real philosophical import, making reference to influential thinkers in the field and drawing conclusions that were as insightful as they were creative and original.

These days, it’s all I can do to follow the directions on a package of Top Ramen.

Years of overindulging and underacheiving have effectively smoothed out many of the vital folds in my brain; synapses that once fired like crackling summer lightning, now sputter damply; back in the day my grey matter glowed fiery red; these days you’d be hard pressed to record a glimmer on an EKG affixed to the frontal lobes; my stream of consciousness is reduced to a trickle; when my mind races, it never even leaves the starting blocks.

I suppose I should be bothered by this, but fortunately, I’m just too dumb to care.

Intelligence is probably overrated anyway; it’s not like the brain surgeons and rocket scientists of the world are enjoying themselves more than anyone else; it’s not even clear that their contributions to humanity are that much better than the rest of ours.  I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to add several dozen points (back) to my IQ; on the other hand, what’s so great about being smarter if you’re not happier?

Perhaps if I hadn’t wreaked such havoc on my cognitive abilities, I’d have an answer to this question; maybe when my mind was younger and suppler, I’d be able to wrap my brain around this inquiry and come up with a solution to it.

Alas; it’s not to be.  There is one good thing, though: no one ever asks me anymore, “If you’re so smart, how come you’re not rich?”

Crash

Another day, another crisis in the stock market.

I’ve seen this movie before, in 1987, 2001, 2008, for example.

Am I worried?  Certainly.  Will I do anything about it?  Probably not.

Meanwhile, fires are burning up Eastern Washington.  And the largest piece ever recorded of the Greenland ice sheet just fell off into the ocean.  NASA says that an asteroid won’t slam into earth next week, but I don’t believe them.

We’re doomed! 

Or not.

If I didn’t have a newspaper or the internet, I wouldn’t know that I ought to be so frightened; as I sit here on my couch this lovely late-summer morning, the world seems fine.

Little do I know.

My dog seems sanguine about the day’s events; she’s enjoying her breakfast, so at least, I think, I don’t have to worry about an earthquake in the next hour or so.

This is another example of the future attacking the present.  Right now, everything’s reasonably okay, but if things keep going this way, then we’re fucked.  But one of the big reasons they might go this way is because we fear they will.  So, we’re probably fucked whatever we do.

I’ll be okay just so long as I can still have a cup or two of coffee in the morning and an opportunity at some point during the day to ride my bike.  A dinner that includes carrots would be nice, too.

I just don’t have the energy to totally freak out and lose my shit over the prospect of all the terrible, awful things that are and/or could be happening in the world.  Maybe this marks me as an ostrich with my head in the sand.  Or perhaps I’m just a worm who lives underground all the time.

What I do know is that no matter what my reaction is to these turn of events, it won’t make any difference as to whether they happen or not.

So, what, me worry?  Not much.

Mordant

Although I may be lying to myself, I claim I’m not afraid of death.

Dying, sure, especially if it involves losing control of my bowels, is scary, but being dead, not so much.  When I’m gone, I’m gone, and while it pains me to imagine how my loved ones might feel (and I do stress “might”) at not having me around, the idea of my own non-existence isn’t, I think, all that troubling.

If, by an expected turn of events, my consciousness perseveres after my body dies, and I continue to have experiences of some sort, then I wouldn’t really be dead, would I?  So, to fear that eventuality (which, frankly, I don’t) wouldn’t really be to fear death; it would be to fear the next stage of life.  And since I’ve already admitted that the prospect of a painful demise is frightening, I don’t think this commits me to a fear of death, either.

Of course, I could be just kidding myself; it’s entirely possible I’m unaware of my true feelings or maybe I’m simply so terrified that I’m able to convince myself of something that isn’t the case at all.  That’s a reasonably scary prospect, but one that doesn’t really give me the shivers either.

Being dead actually sounds pretty sweet when you think about it: no more bills to pay, dental appointments to keep, and contrary to the way most horror movies portray it, no need to cut your hair or fingernails ever again.  Picture a nice, long sleep never broken by the morning alarm clock.

I’m certainly in no big hurry to meet my demise, but at the same time, I can’t say I won’t welcome it when it does arrive.  I like the way those old sadhus in India did it: they’d just take a seat and wait for the grim reaper to appear, nothing scary about it; they’d already seen the nastiest life had to offer; death could be no worse.

iConsume

My new shopping app—iConsume—makes Amazon’s software obsolete.  Whereas the tech-giant’s algorithms can make recommendations for consumers based on choices they’ve made previously, my program identifies what you want before you even know you want it.

Moreover, it then buys the item for you, uses it, and eventually throws it in the trash after it breaks, two days after the warranty runs out.

In short, iConsume takes all the work out of being a consumer; it does the consuming for you, enabling you to make you vital contributions to the global economy without having to lift a finger—essentially turning “single-click” shopping becomes “no click” at all.

Think about it: everything we buy has a life cycle.  You begin by coveting it; then, depending on your penchant for procrastination, you eventually purchase it; there’s a honeymoon period (after a bit of buyer’s remorse); soon enough, though, you’re no longer in love; and then, finally, it stops working (literally or figuratively), and out it goes in the garbage.  Each transition point in this process represents mental or physical energy that needs to be expended; iConsume takes care of all this for you; and with automatic payments, as well!

Remember when you bought the food processor and did all that online comparison-shopping before making your decision?  And then, after your purchase arrived, didn’t you use it two or three times the first few days you had it, only to move it to the back of the closet where it now languishes, unused except for the occasional once-in-awhile pesto or hummus?

With iConsume, that whole process is entirely automated.  Since it’s inevitably what happens, why not?

IConsume will particularly appeal to young professionals working for companies like Amazon; with iConsume, they can work harder while consuming more efficiently.

But best of all will be for the staff at iConsume; iConsume will do the shopping that makes their shopping possible; thus, at last, achieving the goal of rendering humans superfluous.

Similar

Here in the Midwest, where it’s so hot and humid that you glow with a sheen of sweat just from strolling around the block, people, it seems, like to be more alike one another than different.

Today in Madison, WI, for instance, which is “move-in day” for student housing, innumerable parents in pick-up trucks are unloading their children and those youngster’s possessions at countless apartments all across town and what’s striking about it—apart from the abundance of winter sports gear that come along with the kids—is how similar are all the versions of the families: Dad is wearing cargo shorts; Mom has on capri pants, and junior (male or female version) sports a tank top and a grimace. 

Surprisingly (to me, anyway) is that the college-age person is the one offering up rules: “That isn’t the way it’s done,” says the child as father double-parks in front of the apartment.  Mom just wants to make nice and feel confident that her darling has ample dishware, so she doesn’t say anything.  Eventually, the young one relents, carries a box or two into the new abode and soon the stack of possessions migrates from automobile to vestibule while tempers remain as heated as the metal shelves baking in the sun.

Oddly, no one seems to minds that everyone does it the same way; apparently, the social pressures to conform are powerful enough that even the next generation prefers that the previous one acts like the one before that; mom and dad get props for toeing the line, clearly one that has been drawn long before any of the current artists came along.

Out West, where I come from, everyone wants to be different, which is, I suppose, just another way of trying to be the same.  Maybe the model around here is more authentic; maybe ultimately humans strive to not stick out; surely, as hot as it is, the sensible thing is to hide in the shade.

Odious

I don’t like myself very much right now, which is actually surefire evidence that I care more for myself than I’m willing to admit.

If I didn’t hold such an exalted opinion of myself, I wouldn’t mind that I’m not living up to my own particular standards, so in thinking poorly of myself, I’m actually arguing that I’m a better person than I appear to be which is, after all, a fairly narcissistic conception of who I imagine myself to be.

It’s like the so-called “Paradox of the Rakehell” in which we recognize that paradoxical nature of feeling bad for having done something shameful.  When I do so, I end up feeling a little bit better because I recognize myself as the sort of person who has finely-developed enough sensibilities to feel poorly when he acts badly.  I feel good for feeling bad, in other words, when I should, strictly speaking, only feel bad.

So here, as I silently castigate myself for not being more industrious, more altruistic, or more generous with my time and money, I’m implicitly holding myself up as an ideal of some sort; I’m claiming that I’m such a good person that I can judge myself as a lesser one.  See what high standards I have?  See how refined are my attitudes?  See what an exemplary judge of character I am?

Of course, I’m also making an assessment of this very behavior, as well.  I’m judging myself for judging myself, and in doing so, making a case that I’m even a better person than the one who merely judges.  It’s an infinite series of ever-higher levels of admirableness, none of which I can ever, by definition, attain.  And yet, in recognizing the hopelessness of this endeavor, I confidently assert that I’m always one step above where I appear to be.

None of this really makes me feel any better about myself, but as we’ve seen, the worse I feel, the better I am.

Nothing II

It’s difficult, if not impossible, to talk about nothing, because as soon as you do, it becomes something.

For instance, if I set out to sing the praises of a day on which I did nothing, then suddenly, automatically, I’ve turned it into an aspiration, and, before you know it, it’s become a project with deadlines and deliverables—no longer nothing; now it’s something.

I try to sit on the couch and do nothing, but in doing it, I’ve done it, and there you go, I’m busy all over again.

The trick is to plan for doing things and then not do them; thus, you create the empty space that gets to be filled in with more empty space; or something like that.

It’s not simply a matter of failing to live up to expectations; the true test is to have no expectations whatsoever—without expecting that to be the case at all.

Ironically, when you do certain things—watch television in the daytime, bite your nails and spit the leftover clippings on the carpet, read mystery stories—you’re actually doing less than if you simply sit quietly and stare at the tip of your nose.  The more you do, the less it matters, anyway.

Of course, nothing that anyone does is really anything; even the efforts of the greatest artists in history will eventually be erased by the march of time and the eventual explosion of our sun.  When earth is subsumed by the Red Dwarf our star will become, all these many somethings will be reduced to nothings, so why not just get it over with now?

I had plans for the day, but they’ve come to naught; I was going to do something, but now I’ve changed my mind.  Thus, for a brief period, at least, I have managed to do nothing, at least insofar as it represents an alternative to something that would have been something.

And that, unfortunately, is something, isn’t it?

Something

For the remainder of the summer, I’ve resolved to do at least one thing every day in the way of simplifying, cleaning, or just generally de-cluttering things around the house.  So, for instance, yesterday, I took a load of stuff to Goodwill; the day before, I re-organized my downstairs bookshelf; and the day prior to that, I pulled a few weeds.

I was thinking dump run today, but the car is unavailable, and I’m too lazy to bike it, so I might just make due with taking some old and/or broken computers to the recycling place.

Of course, it’s all “tip-of-the-iceberg” stuff; if I really wanted to make a dent, I’ll drive a bulldozer into my basement and begin digging.  After three days, I might be able to claim success, but only if I agreed to overlook my bike shop.

The source of most of the clutter in my house and life is a kind of vague optimism about the future.  I hold on to things with the idea that I might need them someday.  A set of road bike wheels that may come in handy should I want to inexpensively build up a new bike; some clothes that could be useful if I’m ever going to run in the Iditarod; a shelf of books that I hold onto in the slim hope that I might return to graduate school and finish my Ph.D. 

What’s the point?

I want to end my life, as did the traditional sages of ancient India, with just a few simple possessions: my glasses, a pair of shoes, and a couple hundred million dollars in the bank.  In order to get there, I’d better start winnowing my collection of footwear as soon as possible.

I have three pairs of Chuck Taylors: my good ones, that I can wear to school; the crummy ones, for mowing the lawn, and the moldy ones, for…what?

Hey, found my one thing: into the trash they go!

Poisoned

Everybody knows that “food poisoning” is a euphemism for "hangover."  It’s like when the newspapers reported that San Francisco Giants pitcher Tim Lincecum was unable to appear at the team’s World Series victory parade due to “flu-like symptoms.”  It’s not surprising that if you take a bath in champagne while simultaneously swilling it straight from the bottle that you’ll wake up the next morning feeling a little sick; whether you call it “flu-like symptoms” or “food poisoning,” we know what you mean.

So, naturally, I felt a little suspect begging off of a meeting at school yesterday due to “food poisoning,” but, believe it or not, I really was suffering from the effects of something I ate, not some things I drank.

It’s strange when consuming what is intended to nourish you ends up doing the opposite.  Soon after my Monday evening meal of tomatoes, bread, cheese, and pickles, I was kneeling over the toilet giving back the contents of my dinner to the porcelain god.  I was up pretty much the entire night disposing of the contents of my belly in both directions and spent all day Tuesday going from one reclined position to the next, weak as a kitten, as they say, but with none of that furry creature’s requisite cuteness.

I’m wondering about the evolutionary provenance of listeria or whatever else it was that gave me such distress.  If I were some bacteria that wanted to pass on its DNA efficiently, you’d think I’d be adapted to make my host feel well, not awful.  Wouldn’t it make more sense of “food poisoning” gave a person extra energy and a fuller head of hair?  If that were the case, it seems like people would much more consistently eat spoiled cheese or, as in my case, tomatoes that were over the edge.

But perhaps this is already what happens; purged as I was, I did, after all, have an excellent yoga practice this morning, so there.