My friends and I, my loves and I, we spend a lot of time talking about the meaning of life. And I know—I really do know—that the meaning of life is to, you know, live the life. That’s it, really, and all the angst is superficially over-intellectualized crap that, if we could completely and totally let go of, we would be tranquil. I know this. Sean knows this. Most of us know this.
And yet, here we go again: Why are we here? What do we do this for? Is it enough?
I have an engineer friend who, when I go do this place, tells me sternly to shut up my monkey brain—and he’s not using the Buddhist concept here, he’s referring to my too-clever-for-itself monkey, whose immense curiosity and agility invented—well, everything, from the wheel to the nuclear bomb, and the unfortunate unintended evolutionary side effect of which (nothing in evolution, by the way, is intended, not really—it just happens—that’s the meaning of life—isn’t that marvellous and crazy?) is all this self-doubt and questioning and spiralling and chatter.
I don’t spiral much, not really, but when I do, it is quite spectacular.
Anyway, this day, we do not talk about the meaning of life. We eat pancakes and drink cocktails and then then have cherries and steak for lunch and demand a delivery of chicken and beer for supper. Somewhere in there, we make arrangement for smores.
We are, on this day, pretty much perfectly happy. All the existential angst is in the background. The foreground is—friends, food, drink, pleasure.
Would only every day feel like this.
I was here…
…and I worked this:
Bucket list moments.
I want you to read this:
I don’t, by the way, live with chronic depression and generalized anxiety. I live with chronic existential angst, which is a very different thing and manifests not in unhappiness, but in this bone-deep desire to make sure that my life matters, makes a difference, is neither cosmic accident nor irrelevant blip in the unfolding of the universe… contrasted with the awareness that actually, if the universe is the backdrop, I am an irrelevant blip, a cosmic accident, and any attempt to matter is arrogant, foolish, and pointless, oh-my-god-why-am-I-here?
Ender: Mom! I’m hungry!
I make the nth burrito of the day. This is, of course, one of the reasons that I am here. Is it enough?
I just think this is really funny.
Sean: Maggie, we have something to tell you. This may come as a shock to you. You’re adopted. Jane is not your real mother.
The dog dances in circles on the floor and stares at him with a look of dumb love in her eyes.
Jane: Would you guys stop calling me the dog’s mother. Please.
Sean: Did you not hear me? I just told her she’s adopted. And broke her heart. The poor, poor puppy.
True story: I had a dog before I had kids. I loved her, probably too much.
This little thing? She’s just a dog.
I am NOT her mother.
Cinder: But she really, really loves you anyway.
I don’t. Not really.
The rest of them do.
Me… I think she’s ok.
Cinder: You are the favourite child.
Jane: Well… um… you know…
Cinder: Do you want to break the dog’s heart again?
Jane: Maggie? Walk?
She dances circles around me and stares at me with dumb love in her eyes.
Fabulous book launch. Much joy.
2014 was sort of a hard year for me and mine, and I spent much of it in a fog of shock, but that does not excuse the fact that I saw this video for the first time last week:
So do you think Weird Al suffers from existential angst?
Or is he perfectly happy?
I’d really like to know…
I’m lighting incense off the stove because I can’t find any lighters of matches in the house.
Cinder: There are like five lighters in the house. Why are you doing this?
Jane: Where are these lighters you speak of? In your room?
Cinder: In the bathroom, behind the jar full of nail clippers. There’s one only lighter on the floor of my room. And I need it to build a flamethrower.
I so didn’t hear that and you so didn’t read that.
Jane: Can you get me a lighter?
Cinder: Flora! Get Mom a lighter!
Jane: Dude! I asked you!
Cinder: But I hate the smell of incense.
Flora: So do I!
And Sean’s allergic to it, so I burn incense on the balcony or on the patio, when nobody else is around.
Secret incense burner, that’s me.
I smoke cigars on the balcony too—oddly, they complain about that less.
surprise delivery from Damascus
The ghosts from the past are extra active this week. Maybe there’s something in the air or in the stars. I am happy-sad, exhausted-mad, angry-hopeful. Also, resigned.
All at the same time.
The question she wants to explore with me this week is… success and failure. What is it, exactly? How do you define it? How do you measure it?
I can’t define success or failure. Nor do I want to. Because, although I don’t know very much, I do know this:
Those are the wrong questions. The irrelevant questions. Get bogged down, get lost in definitions and semantics if you want to.
This week, there is no success, there is no failure.
There is only being alive.
And I am.
PS There is a box of cookies in my studio right now. It was bought here:
—->>>POSTCARDS FROM CUBA
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