Why?
I am considering taking a photo of everything I eat. Kind of a phood-o-log. Maybe it will embarass me into dieting, or maybe it will escalate my self-contempt to a satisfying crescendo.
What else would I do? I’m a ‘rich’ American. Clean water everywhere. Lots of food, so much food, we call it junk. Lots of safe shelter, personal space at home; so much space that I fill it with junk.
We can do anything artificially. It’s being genuine that is the challenge. We are like rare and finely crafted musical instruments, once in perfect tune. Now, padded and put away, to be ‘safe’ (or something) our opiated haze (whether or not due to actual opiates) leaves us blazé, out of tune, and out of play.
Or, to switch metaphors, we float in quiet pools of water, perfectly neutral in temperature, under a sun neither hot nor dim, caressed by whispy breezes that are exactly as warm as our skin, and we have some pleasurable diversion nearby to relieve us of any effort whatsoever—in my case a silken-skinned pool-boy to fetch drinks and swat flies. And smile at me.
How about a little genuine desperation? Or some effort at least?
I like to dream. It is when I wake up that anxiety starts. I suspect anxiety is merely a symptom of un-exerted capacity, the result of a neglected effort, the natural effect of artificial living. The remedy which springs to mind is physical exertion, like chopping wood, or climbing mountains. But that is not all that is missing. We are not that simple. We have minds and intelligence, and awareness of ourselves and the world: I am fat; the US is a terrorist state; I don’t need all these toys; oil is running out; my life is limited. And so on. These perceptions suggest to me—and sometimes demand—certain actions on my part. These perceptions are not always clear about what it is I need to do, but they are insistent that I need to do something. What to do exactly is for me to decide. Sigh.
I find that something sweet usually makes the feeling go away.
There. I wrote a little. Maybe, if I keep this up, I will eventually get sick of this babbling and finally write something meaningful.