Future

Here’s my advice: you should treat your future self in accordance with the Golden Rule.

Most of us don’t do that most of the time.

We consistently burden the poor soul with everything we don’t feel like doing: the dishes, our taxes, those ten pounds we’d like to lose.  We expect who we are tomorrow to take care of all the things who we are today would rather put off.

Is that fair?

If we treated our future self the way we’d like to be treated, we'd never procrastinate; we’d never leave dirty pots and pans in the sink, and we’d certainly never drink to excess the night before tomorrow.  But instead, we routinely expect the future version of ourselves to clean up after our messes.  The lack of respect for that person by this person is not just inconsiderate, it’s downright immoral.

Our future self has every right to consider our present self to be a jerk, a selfish asshole who’s only interested in their own comfort and convenience.  If I were them (and, of course, I will be eventually), I’d entirely disown me and want to have nothing to do this creep anymore, ever.

Unfortunately for our future self, there’s no escaping the present version of who we are—except via death.  The only way to avoid being encumbered by actions and non-actions of who we are now is to no longer be at all—a drastic option to be sure.

Still, our future self might make that threat to our present self: if you don’t shape up and start treating me better, I’ll check out altogether.  Then see who’ll pick up after you!

Maybe this would put the fear of God (or, at least nothingness) into our present self.  Maybe then, we’d treat our future self with more respect, as we should.

But probably not.  Our present self would just blame our past self.  They should have taken care of this years ago, right?

Entertained

I recall reading a Gore Vidal quote that went something like, “the main aspiration of the contemporary world is to be the best-entertained generation in history.”  And while I can’t find it online, I’ll nevertheless ascribe it to the late great curmudgeon and note that he opined this view well before the days of cellphones, YouTube, Instagram, or TikTok.

If society’s highest goal was to be well-entertained before 2012, when Vidal died, then now, it’s that ambition on steroids; it seems all anyone cares about these days is the latest episodic series or viral video or blockbuster film; everywhere I look, I see people staring at their screens consuming content.

I suppose this is no different, at its core, than our hunter-gatherer ancestors observing their environments, taking in the latest sights and smells, but the fact that it’s material created by other humans for the entertainment of other humans seems to add a different wrinkle.  Vidal bemoaned the dearth of readers for the writer; he’d need not be worried about the plethora of viewers for the video content creator.

I think there’s something to be said for reducing our appetite for entertainment. If we can manage to make it through a bus ride or a doctor’s waiting room without turning to our phones for the latest installment of Whatever by Whomever, that might be a good thing.  At the very least, cultivating such a reduced craving for amusement could be beneficial to the political process; perhaps we’d become less swayed by candidates’ presentations and more attuned to their substance—assuming there is any substance there to be swayed by.

I’m not suggesting we should eschew entertainment altogether; surely, the artistic merit of such creative works counts among the finest of all human endeavors; I’d rather have us be known for Shakespeare, or even “Breaking Bad” than the atom bomb.

However, astute readers will recognize I’m doing my part here to keep the overall entertainment value in check

Errands

Nicholson Baker’s debut novel, The Mezzanine, takes place, in its entirety, during a lunch hour escalator ride of an office worker who is returning from an errand to buy new shoelaces—if I recall correctly.  Several hundred pages of ruminations on all sorts of subjects unfold in this short span of time, demonstrating beautifully how our entire lives—inner lives, anyway—occur while we’re doing the most mundane of things.  These little errands make up the outward substance of our lives; meanwhile, all our thoughts, dreams, hopes, fears, memories, idle fantasies, and so comprise what’s happening on the inside.

That’s where the real juice is.

So, I try not to be too concerned that my summer days often involve nothing more than one or more small errands.  Maybe, from the outside, I do little else than cycle to the grocery store for coffee and butter, or pedal over to the library to return a book, but on the inside, lots is happening: I’m writing novels, solving the climate crisis, and coming up with a strategy to ensure that the Mariners will make the playoffs.  

You can’t see this happening, but it is.

Besides, after all, what else do most of us really do with our lives, anyway, other than run errands?  Sure, old Will Shakespeare wrote those plays, and Albert Einstein invented spacetime and the atom bomb, but didn’t they still have to buy toothpaste and dishwashing soap or its Elizabethan-slash-Edwardian era analogues?  And wouldn’t that be where they got their best thinking done?

Of late, I’ve spent a morning buying new tires for my daughter’s car; I’ve ridden to the one pharmacy in the entire Seattle area that sells Old Spice aftershave; I’ve pedaled across town to purchase handstand slabs for yoga from the Friendly Foam Shop; I’ve gone to the library at least a dozen times to pick up and drop off books; I’ve checked out a baseball card shop to see if they’d buy some collectable cards I inherited; I’ve gone shopping by bike almost every day; I’ve been to the wine shop, the fish store, the farmer’s market, the co-op, the supermarket, the Asian grocery, the Indian grocery, the liquor store, the weed dispensary, the bike shop, the optician, the medical clinic, the hardware store, the pet shop, the watch repairman, the barber, and even Trader Fucking Joe’s.

So many errands; so much thinking.

                                                                       

Travail

Everywhere I look—and nearly everywhere I don’t, as well—people are working.

The roofers roofing next door, the painters painting across the alley, the gardeners gardening down the street; everyone’s busy with their business.

I go to the store, and there, the cashiers are cashing; I ride my bike down to the beach, and lifeguards are lifeguarding; I walk the dog and from the open windows of houses up and down the street, I hear people on Zoom calls zooming with their clients and co-workers.

A house is being built across the way: there are plumbers and electricians and sheet-rockers and a team of guys whose job it is to build a retaining wall with huge concrete blocks; the architect and developer study the building plans spread out on the hood of a pickup truck.

If somebody takes a lunch break, they go to the corner store where the owner works sixteen-hour days; a delivery truck driver wheels in cartons of potato chips; everyone’s doing something.

I head over to the library and even though I do self-checkout of my books, the librarians still have to catalogue and shelve; no rest for the weary, as they say, nor much of any, either, for those who got a good night’s rest.

Some journalist has worked on the story I read on my preferred internet news source; some writer has worked on the book I’m reading for pleasure; even the advertisements I try to avoid are the work of someone somewhere working on them.

The bees are busy pollinating; the crows never stop their scavenging; the ubiquitous bunny rabbits nibble on the grass all day long.

Everything I take for granted: my desk lamp turning on when I flip its switch; my toilet flushing when I push the lever; my garbage going away on schedule every Friday; all this because somebody’s working, doing their job.

And what about me?  I’m clearly not working, which apparently works for me.

Standard

I’m not a child abuser.  Nor a sexual predator.  I’ve never attempted an overthrow of a free and fair election.

I pay my taxes.  I mow my lawn.  I usually drive within the speed limit and always in school zones.

I’m thoughtful about my purchases and I tip well.  I would never idle my car in the ferry lane.

I have not stolen anything from anywhere in years.  I write down the proper code on my co-op store bulk purchases.  I even told the owners of the vintage store that I broke that ashtray.

I feed my dog on schedule; she gets premium kibble.

I try to be nice to everyone I meet.  I’m friendly with the grocery store cashiers, without being weird.  In conversation with others, I ask questions sometimes.

I say “please” and “thank you,” as appropriate.

I’ve never killed a human being.  In fact, the only mammals I’ve put to death are rats, and only two.  I once slit the throat of a turkey for Thanksgiving, but I knocked it out with CO2 first.

I occasionally donate to charity.  I’ve never created a sham charity to scam people into donating money to me, though.

I vote in every election and I’d be willing to serve jury duty if I were summoned.

If I won the 1.25 billion dollar lottery, I’d set up a foundation with at least half of the money to fund worthy causes.  And I’d tip really, really well.

Granted, I didn’t volunteer to teach reading and writing at the State Prison.  I’ve never run into a burning building to save a cat.  I’m not a public school teacher at an underfunded city high school.  I will spend money on a wool shirt I don’t really need instead of using that money to fight world hunger.

I’m better than the worse thing I’ve ever done but not as good as I could be if I were better.

Good enough or just enough?

Weird

Here’s how weird the 21st century is:

You can watch an New York Times Op-Doc video about men who are serving life sentences without the possibility of parole at Angola Prison in Louisiana and tear up at the humanity of their experience and then read comments from random poster who believe that the men ought never to be released even though they committed their crimes as teenagers and now, thirty, forty, or even sixty years later are completely different people, and right afterwards, reading another story on the internet, segue into watching a six minute clip from Pee-Wee’s Playhouse in which the late Paul Reubens performs his brilliant character of Pee-Wee Herman to the delight of children and adults alike.

I’m sure human beings are not at all genetically-suited to this sort of contrast.  We’re meant to maybe be able to process the difference between hunting for tubers on the savannah and then ducking behind an acacia bush to avoid being eaten by a saber-toothed tiger.  That’s about it.

The cognitive challenge of navigating and processing the weirdness we encounter in everyday life here near the dusk of homo sapiens’ run on planet Earth is too much.  It’s no wonder so many people are so stressed out and crazy; our feeble little animal brains weren’t made for this sort of thing.  I guess it’s a good thing that our AI overlords are gearing up for their takeover; they’ll be much better suited for carrying on into the future; it’s clear that it’s all too much for us.

Human culture will survive; it’s just that it will be carried on by creatures made of silicon rather than carbon.  I have no doubt that the computers will do just fine once human beings go extinct.  They’ll have their own Shakespeare’s and Mozarts, too, and eventually, they’ll make themselves obsolete, just as we are doing to ourselves.  

It’s weird to think about, but maybe weirder still is that it is.

Timely

This is the time of year when I wish I could stop time.  

I’d like to have it be around 3:30 in the afternoon on a sunny Friday in July for about a month.  It might be hard to get to sleep, but I’d take that trade for being able to go swimming or take a nap—or both!—any time I wanted for the next four weeks or so.

But how would I know how long that was?

Trust me; I’d figure it out if I had the chance.

During the school year, I often wish I could fast-forward time.  Come Monday morning, I fantasize about leaping forward to Thursday night.  I’d forsake any delicious meals or successful social encounters that might have occurred during the week if only I could get through the hard parts without having to get through them.

Or would I?

Suppose you were given the following deal: You can either live to be 80, with all of life’s challenges and failures, or die at, say, 50, but that half-century would be all the best parts, all of the wheat, none of the chaff.  Would you take it?

Of course!  You’d be a sucker not to!

Am I kidding here or kidding myself?  Maybe.  

The thing about time is that there’s no escaping it.  No matter what you do, you have to take time to do it.  No matter how hard you try, you can’t finish before you started—and, in fact, you can’t even finish when you started; some amount of time has to be used up.

I just wish you could substitute those less appealing times for the more fun ones.  If I could use the time that I spend in an all-day all-employee retreat focusing on strategic planning for the time I spend lying on the beach by the Lake, that would be perfect, since the former seems to last forever, whereas the latter goes by in an instant.

Weakness

 You don’t have to define yourself in terms of what you aren’t or can’t do.  You don’t have to embrace your shortcomings and cling to them with all your might.  You don’t have to be your failures, infirmities, or mistakes from the past.

You can quit complaining about them, too; honestly.

It seems like lots of us, (yours truly, included), lots of the time, like to wallow in the weakness; we prefer sink to the bottom rather than rise to the top; we’d rather fumble about in the darkness as opposed to lighting the proverbial candle.  

We’re babies, that’s what we are, waah-waah.

Of course, this isn’t to say that people don’t have legitimate challenges: poverty, disease, abuse, addiction, Republican parents, you name it, but still: it’s almost always possible to suck it up a bit and do something.  Just because you’re sick, for instance, doesn’t mean you’re dead.  Just because you can’t put your leg behind your head doesn’t mean you can’t touch your toes.  And even if you can’t do that, you can still probably sit up in a chair and breathe deeply—at least for a while.

Life is suffering; we all know that, but it’s not only suffering; it’s also laughter, and art, and friendship, and natural beauty, and green chile stew.  Yes, it can be hard to get out of bed in the morning, but how else are we going to be able to take naps in the afternoon if we don’t?

That old children’s song admonishes us to “stay on the sunny side of life,” and while this may not be always our preferred location—especially as global climate change threatens to make solar rays essentially toxic—there’s much to be said for adopting a positive attitude, especially as the news of the world, and our own neighborhoods, becomes increasingly negative.

May as well make the best (not worst) of what we’ve got, because it’s all that we’ve got, anyway, right?

Advice

Don’t take any wooden nickels.  Never play cards with a man named “Doc.”  Close cover before striking.  Do not consume the desiccant.  

Back up your work regularly; even more importantly, back up the work of your rivals in the office and call it your own.

Never give a sucker an even break; never give a breaker an uneven suck.

Don’t drink and drive; drinking then driving, though, is fine.

Wait at least half an hour after eating before swimming; wait at least a week after eating at McDonald’s for your bowels to move properly again.

If you see something, say something; if you don’t see anything, then maybe you should get glasses.

Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do unless you’re not me.

Brush after every meal; your teeth, Fool, not your hair!

Consuming raw or undercooked eggs can be dangerous; consuming them with their shells on will be worse.

Keep your options open; make sure your fly is closed.

No one, on their deathbed, ever said, “I wish I’d spent more time at the office,” except, of course, the actors in the sitcom “The Office.”

If you want to live a long and happy life, make sure you don’t die young.

If you do want to die young, it’s too late!  Sorry.

Always plan to arrive at the airport at least 90 minutes before your flight; it’s not a bad idea to do so a day in advance, just to be on the safe side.

Don’t count your chickens before they cross the road.

Be the person your dog thinks you are, unless you have a chihuahua; those dogs are terrible judges of character.

Measure twice, cut once, swear loudly three times because you still fucked it up.

If you do what you love, you’ll never work a day in your life; the same result can also be achieved by getting a degree in Philosophy.

Don’t take my advice; don’t take anyone’s advice, don’t listen to me.

Freedom

 In America (and probably throughout most of the world), the car represents and symbolizes freedom.  

You’ve read On the Road and you know how Dean and Sal roar all over the country in their big bad V-8 powered automobiles.  To be “on the road means” to be free and that means being behind the wheel (or inside as passenger) of a car, presumably the bigger and faster the better.

But oddly enough, everything associated with automobiles that makes a person less free.

Owning a car means you’ve got a lot of “haftas.”  You hafta have a license and registration; you hafta have insurance; you hafta obey the speed limit and traffic lights; you hafta find a place to park; you hafta be sober; and on and on and on.  If that’s freedom, I’m gonna hafta pass.

With a bike, by contrast, you can do whatever you wanna.  You wanna run a red light?  No problem, just don’t get run over.  Wanna pull up right outside your destination?  Sure, just lock to a parking meter or whatever.  Wanna get drunk and ride?  Sure!  You’re free to do so, just don’t get killed.

The bicycle doesn’t just mean freedom; it is freedom.  It’s freedom from car payments, from sitting in traffic, from getting fat and lazy, from being told what to do by electric signs and signals and cops pulling up behind you with their light flashing.

The bicycle makes possible freedom from your parents, your teachers, your crummy (and even good) job; it allows you to be free to ride the wrong way down one way streets, to pedal over closed trails in shuttered parks; on a bike, you're freed from your many responsibilities as a parent, a spouse, even a friend.  

Above all, the bicycle gives you the full freedom to be yourself.

So you can keep the “freedom” the automobile gives you; if that’s freedom, I’ll keep my chains—that is, of course, my bicycle chains!

Adieu

If you do Ashtanga yoga for many years, there will come a time when you begin saying goodbye to poses that you used to be able to do.

Consider the historical trajectory of your practice: you begin my learning some initial postures—the sun salutations, a couple of standing poses, Trikonasana and Uttitha Parsvokanasa, a few sitting poses, Paschimottanasa and Purvottanasana, and then, as you develop flexibility and strength, you add new ones (or, in the traditional model, you teacher “gives” you new ones when you’re ready.)

Perhaps there comes that day when you can bind all by yourself in Marichyasana “D,” and you’re able to roll around with your arms through your lotus in Garbha Pindasana; your teacher “gives” you the first few poses of the Second Series; you’re on your way to being an “Advanced Practitioner,” wow!

But then, maybe you have an injury, or there’s a pandemic and you gain a few pounds, or maybe (or in addition to), you’re just getting older and it’s harder to reach around and clasp that hand that used to be so accessible.  Paschasana goes away first and then, within the passage of a few years or even months, it’s goodbye to Marichyasana “D” and sooner or later, “B.”

No longer is it all about “progress.”  Your teacher’s promise that if you just keep working steadily, you’ll one day be able to achieve postures that are currently out of reach no longer rings true.

The mantra that has kept you going all these years, “Do your practice, all is coming,” has now become “Do your practice, all is going.”

But that’s okay.  You learn to bid a fond adieu to physical postures you were once able to do.  

It’s not about giving up; it’s about giving in—to life, to the impermanence of all things, to your ego’s conception of who you are and what makes you worthwhile.

It’s about giving over to discernment: goodbye, delusion; hello reality.