Thursday, December 11, 2008

Every morning, as one dire news article bleeds into the next, the world is set ablaze by headlines declaring economic distress from top to bottom. Come lunch time, these misfortunes are numbed over, glowing embers covered by a mental scab, and then when night settles you’re left with the newsworthy ashes of the day, along with the hope that they won’t reignite tomorrow.

I’m scanning the homepage of the Times right now, and it feels like I’m rubbernecking, only everybody seems to be caught in this pile-up. These are crazy times, truly. Really the obituaries are the most upbeat read, if only because they’re honoring what was. As for navigating what is, well, I don’t think anybody has the slightest clue. I remember wondering aloud here a few months ago what precisely goes into writing the great American novel, or pioneering a breakthrough cure, or composing timeless music.

Lofty shit, in a word, because the theme for this year isn’t greatness. It’s survival. Making a masterpiece isn’t the order of the day, so much as hunkering down and just existing. And yet, thankful as I am for the things that allow me to continue doing so–a house, health, employment–it feels like I need to do something more. Some motion is needed. Volunteering, perhaps? Or maybe all this is coming from the bag of animal crackers I just ate.