draw things, paint things, write things, make things ... number 317

It cuts like a knife.

My face looks like a wedding-cake left out in the rain.
—W. H. Auden

MID-JUNE HEAT AND HUMIDITY and I start hearing a lot of Bryan Adams. Out and about. In traffic. In stores. In my head. Why. Why Why Why is this happening. Can't Stop This Thing We Started? Sure we can. Right now. Please stop. A bad therapist might tell me that I am the culmination of my sins, that bad things (things like This Thing?) happen to bad people. Guilty as charged but surely I do not deserve this. Yes, it does cut like a knife, Bryan. What else would it cut like?

Using the most obvious metaphor is Bryan Adams in a nutshell. White t-shirt jeans black leather jacket radio-friendly rock gush. Bruce Springsteen-lite, if that’s possible. Lyrics that make Wrecking Ball seem like the Iliad. And then eventually, of course, the soundtrack guy, making truckloads of money for such timeless classics as Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, The Three Musketeers and Lethal Weapon 3.

And then, like Adrien Brody pretending to be a painter, Bryan went on to pretend to be photographer. Fine with me, because photographs can’t follow you around the way music can.

So can the culture move on now, please? Put his song catalogue in a milk crate in the basement for awhile. Or forever. Yes, I understand the future has been cancelled, that we are stuck in this recursive fashion/entertainment loop forever, where everything is curated/designed/mined from the same branded, vintage, no-calories media landfills, but can we exorcise the worst parts of it? No one on this planet calls Bryan Adams their favourite artist, the same way that no one chooses rice for their last meal.

I tell myself to stop complaining.

FINE. Everything is fine. Don’t listen. Change the channel. Change all the channels. Tune it out. Tune out the world. Don’t like the news? Don’t watch it. Don’t think about it. People don’t want to hear you talk about it. Everything is completely normal. The United States of America is a safe and normal place, run by capable, competent, well-meaning people, and what’s happening there is not causing any problems in the rest of the world, especially in Canada. Everything is great. The kids are fine. People are on time. Workplaces are full and functioning. The weather is not weird. There are no homeless people and everyone’s mental health is awesome. Hospitals and schools have more money and resources than they know what to do with. Everything is a beacon of infinite light. STOP SAYING SLAVE ECONOMY.

Yes: people still don’t want to hear it. Update! that is not an update. I was writing this back in 2008, 2010, 2017 and forever and I’m still writing it today. Have an idea? People don’t want to hear it. Legitimate concerns? People don’t want to hear them. Don’t like the way things are going? People don’t want to hear it. Can’t understand what the hell is going on? People don’t want to hear it. Also, the same reactions still apply. You can hear all the old favourites such as:

• Uh huh.
• Oh well.
• Maybe!
• I don’t know.
• We’re all in the same boat.
• What do you want me to do about it.
• Anyway …
• It’s not that bad.
• It’s fine.
• It’s just the way it is.
• It’s always been like that.
• Could be worse.
• Let’s not concentrate on the negative.
• It’s Patrick, he took out life insurance.

Good for you, son. At my age it’s probably too late for life insurance. Actually at my age it’s probably too late for anything.

I tell myself to stop complaining.

Don’t complain. The Stoics say complaining is toxic. Marcus Aurelius writes, Don’t be overheard complaining, not even to yourself. Okay. The part of this idea I admire is the keeping-yourself-intact part. Being above it all. Looking at difficult people the way Michael Corleone looks at the senator from Nevada in the second Godfather. The part of this idea that I hate is the slave mentality, where the only problem is you, you are the problem, and if you just shut the fuck up everything would be fine.

I like reading Marcus Aurelius. I like the idea of a Roman emperor holding himself to account, trying to be better. When he writes, Our life is what our thoughts make it, I think that’s beautiful. But when he talks about how life is just an opinion (The universe is change, and life mere opinion), I make a face. Broken bones are not an opinion. The proper perspective on broken bones is: Jesus it hurts. Manager who’s a sociopath? Not a lot to interpret there. Leave, avoid or destroy. Plane on fire? In the nuance department, I’m giving this a hard zero.

Perhaps a better quote for one’s mental health is from Epictetus — You are a little soul carrying about a corpse. For me, this combines the weary, forbearing load with just the right amount of doom.

Hey, it’s officially summer! Corrupt plutocracies will bomb corrupt theocracies. Prices will rise. Environment Canada will occasionally lie to you. It will be too hot. You will forget a hat. You will find out later, at night, that you didn’t put on enough sunscreen. That hotdog will hurt your tummy. Your neighbour will discover his three favourite chainsaws. No one at your office will answer their email (hint: they aren’t there). Your kids will treat their phones like lazy crack. Ants will make random invasions. Spiders? Everywhere. Your spouse will be both distracted and demanding. The vibe at the airport? Punishing. The girl who sells you gas-station wine will learn your name and smile at you in a very suspicious way.

I would recommend: walking. I would recommend: poetry. I would recommend ‘This Little Light’ from The Tigers Have Spoken by Neko Case. Or this video:

ralphie_mazzotti

A post shared by @ralphie_mazzotti

We saw the Goodyear Blimp float over our yard the other day; that was cool, too.

Good luck,
djb

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I don't know what's going on, and I'm probably not smart enough to understand if somebody was to explain it to me. All I know is we're being tested somehow, by somebody or some thing a whole lot smarter than us, and all I can do is be friendly and keep calm and try and have a nice time till it's over.
— Kurt Vonnegut