American Fez

There's Always Something

November's first really cold day reminds me that winter probably won't be the walkable wonderland of popular song; more likely it will be a frozen tundra from dystopian fiction, an icebound Hell patrolled by unsympathetic snowmen impersonating the sinister 'Parson Brown.'

Clearly, I should have concealed my skull within a wooly hat before venturing forth. But I am not yet mentally prepared for winter's frigid weather. Shouldering the burden of a thick coat and muffling myself in scarves and ear-muffs still seems like the evil fate awaiting he who wanders away from the light of reason. After all, who in their right mind would willingly choose a front row seat for Sol's disappearing act? Yet here I am living in New England where we remain in the frosty amphitheater long after the sun god's show is over. Here come the Robin Redbreast usherettes bob bobbing along selling hot chestnuts and spicy cider. Some small consolation, I suppose.

So why venture forth at all when indoors can be so cozy by comparison? It is always the dream, of course, to be one of two sleepy people sprawled in front of a roaring fire wearing flannel pajamas while the world outside turns into the Antarctic, and winter's bitter chill allows us to live that dream ... at least until smoldering logs in the fire set the smoke alarm screaming. There's always something.

From Studio 101

I avoid broadcast news for the same reason I avoid walking down dark alleys in the bad part part of town: I fear the clear and present dangers lurking in its telepromptered shadows.

For example, an in-depth report on rising wealth inequality will cause severe cranial trauma from banging my head on the nearest coffee table. Any segment covering congressional politics feels as though I'm being kicked to the ground by a gang of vicious delinquents.

Even a vacuous item revealing some attention-seeking celebrity's unsympathetic personal problems can induce spine-chilling terror. It's like listening to a serial killer's grisly confession, including details of where all the bodies are buried and an ingratiating demand that society should shoulder the blame.

"A cautionary tale for everyone there. And now over to John of the Apocalypse with the weather."

But then I don't really read the newspaper, either. I assume we still have one delivered; it's hard to know. Sometimes it's there on the doorstep. Sometimes it's stolen. Sometimes it's thrown into next-door's fish pond. Sometimes the kid with the paper round calls in sick and nobody bothers to replace him. Sometimes the printers go on strike. And sometimes there aren't enough advertising dollars to justify publishing the damned thing anyway.

So where do I get my news? I guess from the look on people's faces as I pass them in the street. And I have to say the news has got that manic-depressive look in it's eyes. In fact, I'd say the news wants to throw itself under the wheels of an oncoming bus and won't be back after these messages.

Things And Other Things

Tuesday morning. The sun elbows the moon out of the sky, 'I was sitting here,' and makes itself comfortable with a couple of clouds for pillows then spreads its legs across the land. A fist of light knocks that clump of sleep from your head, wipes away the residue of dreams, and drags you from your bed by what's left of your hair. And the voice of yesterday, still camped in the back of your head, reminds you of all its plans for today, all those tasks that you put off until .... 

Meanwhile, the mirror in the bathroom tries to catch your eye: 'Something needs to be done about that nose thing,' its reflecting surface says. 'Do it now with those tweezers while you remember.' But you need at least two cups of coffee before tackling any nose things. Besides, the bathroom mirror can't see your feet so is ignoring the foot thing; and, let's face it, the foot thing should probably take priority over the nose thing, especially this early in the week. Above all, there remains this perpetual lack of energy thing, as if your bones have been soaked in essence of ennui, an invisible problem impervious to tweezers and even the magic potion called caffeine. 'Let's make every day a great day,' sniggers the Ghost of Ambitions Past. 

Last Christmas, the Secret Santa gift I received was a desk top calendar of motivational quotes from various sources. I only managed to get to January 13th before changing the calendar's status from desk top to trashcan bottom. The thing about motivational quotes, of course, is that the quotes are often a melange of contradictory platitudes, as if written by an indecisive guru who can't choose between the spiritual and the materialistic. On Wednesday he counsels stopping to smell the roses, then changes his mind on Thursday and advises grasping them by the thorns instead, but by Friday thinks it's actually better to ignore the roses altogether and consider the lilies. Sort of like Rumi refereeing a fight between a hermit and an entrepreneur in the overgrown garden of Mary Mary Quite Contrary.

In other words, reading motivational quotes won't boost your energy levels. You'd be better off with a daily calendar of Shakespearian insults or Gary Larson cartoons. At least they might be amusing and laughter can always be relied upon to lift the spirits.when nothing else will. If only Confucius had been a comedian who published pictograms of his best skits. And with a grim smile from that thought you get dressed in your sloth costume and ride the electric snail to your office, listening to the voice of tomorrow offering to take care of all those things you were supposed to do yesterday. It's not so bad, after all.

Bible Studies

I'm well aware of what the Sermon on the Mount referred to as 'the beam' in my own eye; and the beam reminds me of one of those iron girders hanging high above the black-and-white city in old pictures of skyscrapers being built, complete with cloth-capped laborers balanced on its rivets eating their lunch or waving at the camera. But I don't know what to do about this beam. If it's removed, I know from experience that the restless construction workers of the mind will simply hoist another one into view, followed by another one, until I have the entire Empire State Building rising into my pupils. Before too long, there will be so many beams in my eye I might as well be wearing a pair of those novelty sunglasses in the shape of the Manhattan skyline.

However, for all these sturdy beams being erected in my eye, I'm not so sure there's just the single, paltry mote in my neighbor's eye. In fact, I'd say it's snowing motes across his face; an impenetrable blizzard of motes accumulating in his eyelids. And with all due respect to Jesus, I sometimes feel it's better to have an architectural wonder in my eye than a barren tundra of frozen motes. After all, you can see a lot from the top of the Empire State Building whereas my neighbor's mote storm has obviously reduced visibility to near zero. This presents a difficult problem for theologians, especially Biblical literalists. But those people have so many motes in their eyes that the motes are coming out of their ears, so I can't expect them to hear what I'm saying, never mind see my point of view.