In what was surely a temporary madness, I seriously considered adopting a dog a few weeks ago, only to come to my senses quickly and decide–for Fido’s sake–to table the idea for now. I’ve always liked dogs, and having grown up with one I know the effort and time required. It’s a commitment at least 10-15 years long with rewarding moments, to be sure, but currently those moments buckle beneath the weight of the necessary attention, not to mention the associated cost.
Besides, I need to focus on people, not canines, in order to create some semblance of a social life, which is currently nonexistent. Recently I was this close to attending an alumni event, specifically an evening at a tavern of some sort, until I realized it was at a tavern, in the evening, with people involved, plus an entry fee of $20. That’s three burritos and a handful of chips, incidentally. The winter issue of the university magazine had also fortuitously arrived a week earlier, a recap of the summer event tucked carefully in its pages: apparently there was a gathering at an alumni household “to socialize and network,” with the Panthers quarterback as the guest of honor, which to me has all the appeal of a Tupperware party held deep in the forest.
I may seem hopeless to you, but let me assure you part of me earnestly wishes to be normal. To be a real mensch, as it were. I’m going to start jotting my ideas and plans pertaining to all things social onto paper. Real paper. Scrap paper, to be exact. It’s the preferred way of sorting my thoughts. Good things happen when I turn to this medium at the junctures that matter most, and when paper gives under pen, all the secrets of the world are revealed.
Organic foods, for most of my life, meant pricier, smaller variants of the same products hidden cleverly in the ass-end of supermarkets. Apples would look ratty, tinier, and a lot less shiny than their genetically modified cousins, plus they’d be furtively tossed into, say, a bucket near the fire escape. Whereas organic cereals may have sat on their own shelf, set slightly to the left of Captain Crunch, organic peanut butter could only be unearthed by knowing exactly what floor tile to pry up that day, and when.
Then came the rise of organic supermarkets, which I handily avoided. But when I gave up manufactured sugars for Lent one year, I had to wean myself off basically everything I ate, and in the process I gravitated toward the natural stuff. The difference was immediate. It was a feel thing, mainly. I was more awake. Felt five to nine IQ points smarter. Could even recall pi to 53 digits, up from my usual high score of two. Gained the ability to list three things sequentially and have one of them be patently false. It was a real eye opener.
These days, I’m more open to organic goods. Still, I’m not completely sold. It’s a tenuous treaty, much like the one I have with nature as a whole. I can appreciate fresh air and sunlight. Theoretically. Too much sunlight, though, and the headaches come and I can do without the stuff for days. Really it’d be best if the sun were activated by clapper, and similarly my alliance with organic alternatives is one of convenience. If a certain item is on sale and within grasping distance, great. Otherwise, I’m reaching for the freakishly large oranges at $0.79/pound.
There’s a bird that’s been pooping on my car without fail for months now. I had the same problem in Chicago, where my car roof was a kind of mecca for birds that ate too much. Maybe one of them followed me here, I don’t know. What I do know is this little fellow cuts straight to the chase. No sitting on branches, high above my car. I suspect it doesn’t even chirp. Just lands on the Saab and lets fly with a song in its heart.
“Well, maybe it’s a Swedish bird,” declared Hap.
Perhaps. It’s also a reminder that, as much as I may regard the great outdoors and its bounty with convenience and occasional disdain, the feeling may very well be mutual. It’s a portrait of my relationship with nature. There’s a kind of parity here. A woodland creature shits on my technology. But then it rains, and all is right again.
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.