Puritanism Is Not Serene

Right now my life is in a strange, in-between place.  In a few months, I'll move across the country, and everything will be new and different.  But until that happens, I don't have much going on, and this state of affairs is quite weird and uncomfortable.  Ordinarily I feel like a pretty productive person.  Lately I've felt about as productive as a sack of slugs.

All of my metaphorical toys are stuck under my figurative refrigerator

My idle mind, in the long-term, is not a very pleasant place.  For the first few weeks of unstructured existence, it says, "Hooray for free time!  Focus!  Be disciplined!  Work on your books!  Envision your future!  Count your blessings!"  But come week four, it turns more to thoughts like:  "Why aren't humans better?  Why are we complicit in our own oppression?  Why is mortality so fucking depressing?"  When I tell myself to stop thinking that way and focus only on things I can control, my mind shifts immediately to:  "What if every single one of my decisions turns out to be a huge mistake??"  And believe it or not, that's not a fun mind space to occupy.  I need some goddamn distractions.

Because of the nagging Puritan work ethic provided by a New England upbringing, my current state of non-productivity is torturous.  I find myself searching for messes just so I can clean them up.  "Oh, look!  Six unwashed towels.  Should probably do a load of laundry.  Uh-oh, there's a dish in the sink.  Better wash it.  And then clean the floor.  And then re-clean it."

As much as I'm trying not to be bored, I've got to admit that I'm getting pretty damn bored.  It doesn't help that I've heard people say, "Only boring people get bored."  What a shitty expression.  Like it's not bad enough fighting boredom without having to question my character and self-identity.  But I know I'm not really a boring person.  I just don't have a whole lot going on right now.  Whenever someone offers me an opportunity to be productive, I pounce on it like a drowning person clinging to a raft for dear life.  "Ask me to do something!  I'll take care of your kids!  I'll re-shingle your roof!  I'll help you across the street, even if you're clearly capable of doing it yourself!  Just PLEASE let me be useful!"

I ask only for a sense of purpose.  Thank you.

A few days ago, I turned to the internet for some ideas on how to tackle boredom, and I discovered this marvelous quote:

"Boredom is the feeling that everything is a waste of time; serenity, that nothing is."

Ah, serenity.  So easy to define.  So hard to achieve.

I love that.  It's as if the author - Thomas Szasz - is offering me permission to be still and appreciate existence instead of looking around frantically and thinking, AAAAAHHHH!!!!  I'm having no impact!  I have no right to live!  I should burn myself at the stake!  Sometimes, having no impact is fine.  Fuck the Puritans.  What a bunch of jerks.
 
As it turns out, Thomas Szasz not only has an awesomely-spelled name AND shared a birthday with my cat Sid, but he also said lots of of other smart things, such as:

• "Clear thinking requires courage, not intelligence."

• "The stupid neither forgive nor forget.  The naive forgive and forget.  The wise forgive but do not forget."

And, probably my favorite:  

• "Doubt is to certainty as neurosis is to psychosis.  The neurotic is in doubt and has fears about persons and things; the psychotic has convictions and makes claims about them.  In short, the neurotic has problems, the psychotic has solutions."

This bear, for example, probably has some really good, definitive ideas.

So now I feel like I did something productive - learned about someone I'd never heard of and the interesting things he believed - while simultaneously being reminded of the value of serenity.  That seems like a nice balance.  I think I've discovered something profound from my introduction to Thomas Szasz, and that is this:  when in doubt, turn to radical, Hungarian psychiatrists.  In my experience thus far, that strategy works 100% of the time.

Al's Utopian Vision

In general, I don't have a problem with bathroom graffiti.  I imagine it gives some folks a vague sense of importance or permanency in an otherwise shaky and unpredictable world.  It also provides reading material while one is sitting on the toilet, and on rare occasions it can be pretty funny.

I captured this lovely sentiment in a public bathroom last year.  What says "I love Jesus" better than scribbling on a bathroom wall in ballpoint pen?  The smiley face caps it off perfectly.  "He died for me!  Yippee!  That makes me so happy!  Hooray for crucifixion!"  AND someone agrees.  Bonus. 

This cheerful fellow was drawn inside a port-o-potty near one of my favorite trailheads on Orcas Island.  I love the look on his face and the flower sprouting out of his head.  Seeing him made my post-hike pee even more enjoyable than usual.

Yesterday was the first time I ever wrote on a bathroom wall.  I was inspired by a sight my poor eyes have fallen upon maybe a million times in my life:  a puerile sketch of a penis & testicles.  And it was humongous.  It took up an entire fucking wall.

I'd much rather see this.  Or nothing.  Nothing would be good.

On a surface level, when I'm faced with that image (as I am so frequently), I just think - Ew.  But on a grander scale, I become filled with annoyance at our society's stupid belief that depictions of male genitalia are infinitely hilarious and should therefore appear every-fucking-where.

I thought for quite a while about how to respond.  I considered simply erasing the drawing, since the bathroom walls were blackboards and doing so would've been easy.  I thought about drawing giant fallopian tubes and ovaries over it.  I also considered putting a big circle around it and then a line through it, or drawing an arrow to it and writing "I hate you."  But I don't hate penises.  I just hate having to see a million crappy drawings of them.

Finally, I took a piece of chalk and printed this simple statement very neatly under the picture:

I dream of a world with no cock & balls drawings.

Ahhh.  Even just imagining the possibility fills me with happiness.
 

Oh, you know it.  I'm well on my way.

My Little Quack

I've had a 2003 Toyota Echo for the past eight years and driven it well over 100,000 miles.  Its name is Quack, because at the time I bought it, I believed the only sound in nature that didn't echo was a duck's quack.  I later found out that's an urban legend and was quite embarrassed that I'm so easily duped.  I mean, why the hell wouldn't a duck's quack echo?  But urban legends are funny like that.  Someone makes up something ridiculous, tells other people, and they tell other people, and soon enough it's common knowledge.

"Your silly beliefs fill us with shame."

However, by the time I found out that quacks echo, Quack had been Quack for years, so I decided to stick with the name.

Quack gets excellent gas mileage, fits in tiny parking spaces, and hardly ever gives me any trouble.  The only issue with my car is that it's so narrow, tall, and lightweight that it acts kind of like a sail in heavy winds.  In fact, a strong enough gust can blow it all the way over into the next lane of traffic.  But, hey - that just keeps things interesting.

Last weekend, some dumbass shithead rear ended my beloved Quack (injuring my poor husband in the process), then took the coward's route and drove off.  Since then, said dumbass shithead (I'll call him D.a.s.h. for short) has taken no responsibility for the accident, while I've had to deal with cops, insurance companies, mechanics, and the DMV.  Meanwhile, it appears that D.a.s.h. - utilizing the brilliant strategy of ignoring cops & insurance agents until they go away - is going to get off scot-free.

If the arms were ten million times longer, this would reflect my true feelings for D.a.s.h.

The problem with having this happen when I'm unemployed is that I have way too much time to feel enraged about the situation.  My thoughts are mired in the icky, gooey tar of righteous fury and helplessness, and I don't have the option of throwing all of my energy into work, which is usually a convenient distraction at times like this.  So instead I find myself drowning in crappy thoughts like:  D.a.s.h. thinks he can pull this bullshit and get away with it because he CAN!  He's fully supported by a culture of selfishness and unaccountability!  He's probably sitting at home laughing at me RIGHT NOW!  AAAAHHHHH!!!  Die, D.a.s.h.!  DIE!

And yes, that train of thought leads to some pretty unpleasant revenge fantasies that spew out liberally in all directions.  I want to go to D.a.s.h.'s house and smash his car to shit with a baseball bat.  I want to use my slingshot to peg the roofer next door with a rock because he's making too much noise.  I want to punch every white male I see in the head, because D.a.s.h. is a white male, and I'm convinced they're all in cahoots.  Even in my most benevolent fantasies, I imagine myself wandering around town, smacking these stickers on people's cars:

You know you're in a poor state of mind when you want to threaten families for no reason

To keep myself from dwelling endlessly in this draining and not-particularly-helpful mindset, I decided to shift my focus to my new pal, gratitude, and upon brief reflection, I realized I'm very grateful for these things:

1. I have a good car.
2. Quack escaped the accident relatively unscathed.
3. When purchasing a car, in no way did I factor in any need or desire to obtain a "status symbol" type vehicle.  If my car had cost a kabillion dollars, I'd probably be even more pissed off about this situation.  

In fact, there are lots of reasons I'm happy I don't have one of those "status symbol" type cars.  In stark contrast to Quack, those cars not only cost a shit ton, but they also tend to have terrible gas mileage, huge repair bills, and get stolen a lot.  So while their owners hope they exude the message:  "My owner totally rocks!" these cars are actually saying:  "My owner makes bad decisions!"

Hey, check out my ridiculous car!  It looks like a battleship!  I'm the King of Stupidville!

I generally don't take the status symbol factor into account when making purchases, not only because I can't afford to (which I can't), but primarily because I don't agree with all that crap.  If someone were to ask me to name something that truly signifies one's success as a human being, I would say this:  "Kids and dogs are happy to see you."  Because if kids and dogs get all squealy, wiggly and excited when you come around, you're doing something right.  Next to that, cars, clothes, jewelry, tech gear, home decor, and all that other crap are pretty damn meaningless.  And you know who I bet kids and dogs are NEVER happy to see?  Who causes them to cry, growl, tuck their tails and run away?  D.a.s.h.  That's who.  Rotten, good-for-nothing bastard.

Speaking of dogs and status symbols (and in the interest of concluding on a more positive note), I don't believe it's a sign of personal success to own a hamster-sized dog so you can carry it around in a gaudy, $20,000 handbag.  A good dog looks like this:

A good dog helps you do your homework and looks super cute doing it