This Might Sound Preachy, But I Wrote It For Me.
“With the way you’re talking, people will think that you don’t care about anything at all.” Mom had been looking down towards the kitchen tablecloth, or at times off to the right, distantly scanning the kitchen floor as I spoke. But now, as I glanced up, she was looking me square in the eyes.
“It’s not really like that, Mom.” I was lying.
We had been sitting at the table, having a light discussion, which had turned towards more vulgar topics – D.C. politics. Specifically, Kamala Harris’ running mate. And neither of us really had any sort of resistance to what the other had been saying. Harris is a fool and a tool, while her running mate likely only reflects her own slithering ways, and Trump possesses all of the political tact and elegance of an acetylene torch. And yet, I still felt compelled to offer up what I saw to be an important counterpoint to her statements on the subject.
My own point could have been generally summed up thusly: None of this matters. Go outside – go walk out into the yard, or the driveway, or hell, even climb up onto the roof, and then slowly turn yourself around in a circle. Whatever you see, that is your world. Your actual world. Everything that you see on your television, your phone, in the paper, and everything you hear on the radio, is merely a woven fabrication, produced by a corporation in a way in which they felt would ensnare you with a gripping story for their own gain, and nothing more. You can say that the woven fabrication is the truth. And perhaps there are, indeed, truthful threads, scattered throughout. Perhaps the politicians in D.C. truly are as wretched as the opposing party claims them to be (I tend to think them all to be scum). Great. Now go back out into the yard, or onto the roof, and point towards Washington D.C., Kamala Harris, and towards Donald Trump.
You…you do at least know which direction they are from you, right? It’s part of your day-to-day life, this political/socioeconomic chaos which consumes you so. So you certainly must know where the physical problem sits, and how to get there (without a map), just as you would the supermarket from where you buy your food.
What is that? What’s that awkward sweeping motion that you’re making with your outstretched hand, and why do you have that stupid grin on your face? Ohhhh…you think that, because you have a general sense of which way East is, you’ve got me beat, eh? I see. Right now, I’m looking out through a window in my parents’ home, and can see the Aldi that I go to to get ground beef, almonds and goat cheese (and occasionally chocolate). And somewhere a few miles beyond and to the right of that (a few hilltops over) I know sits the small farm stand that I buy raw milk from, to make kefir – that hilltop is just a few compass degrees clockwise of the Aldi. Point towards D.C., or Mar-A-Lago with that precision, and perhaps I’ll acknowledge that these figures and bastions of anxiety do play a critical role in your life. But if you unable to do so, then it would be kind of you to simply cut through your own bullshit (sparing me the effort), and point towards your phone, or your tv, from whence all of your intangible stressors emanate.
You likely don’t drive through this nation’s capital regularly. And even if you do, then you likely don’t see its corruption, or its crime, or speak with its criminals or politicians (or its political criminals, or its criminal politicians). In plain English, your mental representation of D.C. and its ongoings, and that of California, Israel and Ukraine, has almost entirely been fabricated by a conglomerate of media corporations. You don’t know anybody with first-hand knowledge of the darkness of these places. Their woes haven’t crept across oceans and down interstates, all the way to your doorstep. These far-flung centers of turmoil and world-ending destruction are in no singular way connected to the actual, tangible life which “you” are “leading.”
And the same goes for nearly every single other topic that we all tend to dwell upon. Even the positive ideals and stories that we focus on – giving to charity, helping the downtrodden – are more than likely but curated images, printed, pressed and presented to us by some non-governmental organization, with the intent of drawing from us our disposable income…WHEN THERE ARE PEOPLE HURTING JUST DOWN THE STREET. The local food bank, which you can likely see from your roof, needs volunteers. On your way there, when you pass that woman who always walks down the same road every day, dragging a beat-up suitcase, you can stop and ask her if she’d like a ride somewhere. Or perhaps you can stop by Sandy’s place, just to take her mind off of things and see how she’s handling the chemo.
Our energies are so wasted on these fictitious lands – constructed for our consumption on our screens and papers – that we fail to tend to the real world that sits outside, waiting for us but a few steps beyond that front door. We could build communities, farms, traditions and memories within our actual worlds. But instead, we sit here rocking back and forth, discussing the evils and woes that are supposedly playing out 2,000 miles away from us.
“Go the fuck outside,” would be, as I said, my main point. “Take stock in your world, close your eyes. Touch the grass, dig your fingers into the soil, and tether yourself to the real. Now listen.
You hear people laughing next door? Crying? A siren a few blocks away? Take that information, and then do as your heart/soul/instincts/gut/god instructs. Sure, you can go vote when it’s time to vote. But then set aside everything else that isn’t actually happening in your world.
“People will think that you don’t care about anything at all.”
“That’s fine,” I wish I had said, returning her gaze. “I suppose I don’t. How was Sandy today?”
