After(mom)math

I’m out of images again, so here’s the back of the hardware package from my previous post:

Dear diary,

I named this entry “after(mom)math” — not to be confused with Elizabeth Bishop’s “Man-Moth” — because I’m writing it in the aftermath of a visit from mom. Why is the mom-visit stressful? Nothing ever happens that a neutral observer would label life-threatening. But I have endured, and thus am cognizant of, the entire context of our acquaintanceship (decidedly I employ this unwarm term), so speech / looks / movements that would seem innocent to other eyes are filled with menace to me. Plus I’m paranoid. And you might think this sounds strange, but I like to please people, and it’s hard for me to feel comfortable when I know that a guest is not enjoying herself; and, believe me, my mother is never enjoying herself. All I got to offer is art, literature, passion for potential – these things mean pure zero to my mom: she opts for...

I don’t want to waste this entry whining. I wasted the last entry whining, stealing another author’s interview questions and blubbering on about how bad my lot in life is. Let me try to think of something positive to say.

I hate politics, but I’m currently addicted to the political sphere. How can I return to my ignorant bliss of 2015? My dad, as I’ve complained numerous times, tried to raise us children as conservative Republicans; so when George W. (eventual prez #43, alas) initially ran for the position of Oligarch Figurehead, I was disgusted – that was the first primary I paid attention to – and when he won the throne, I vowed I’d never care about politics again. My dad was all gung-ho, so he’d wrangle us siblings up and force us to vote (I mean, we could have refused, but it was easier to humor him than to engage in a blowout argument just to avoid one minor excursion (our polling station was right down the block)); so even though I loathed the farce of falsely so-called democracy, I still cast my vote, BUT, instead of choosing any of the given candidates, I’d write in names for president and V.P., like Gene and Dean Ween, and I’d always submit the name Moses for all the judges. Later on, when I escaped my parents’ house and got my own tiny apartment, I stopped voting altogether. But then goddamn Bernie Sanders comes on the scene, all these years later when I’m comfortably nihilistic, and he makes me feel guilty for turning my back on the process; so I reluctantly began paying attention to the political scene again, and I saw how many individuals like myself, who had given up on the notion of government-by-the-people, were rising up and becoming a nation of millions. Finnegans were waking everywhere. But then the system proved to be as farcical as it was in the bad days of W. Nothing had changed. In fact it seemed to have gotten worse. So here I am at present, XXX years later, totally dismayed again, back to nihilism and lacking all hope of change; but I’m now hooked on these left-wing commentators and all the news publications that I subscribe to. I need to QUIT them and time-cleanse my system like I did for Ugly Facebook. But it’s frightening to dive knowingly into ignorance. For perhaps that zillions-strong nation that I saw rising up is currently working to run for countless government positions around the country, and so the people will WIN, at long last, fair-and-square: a nonviolent revolution will become manifest, and the tenacity and persistence of the Lower Class will have paid off. I know that it’s wrong to give up on this possibility. But I’m out of political fuel. If you want me to pursue POETRY past the breaking point, I’m there: I can spend all my existing energies and run on empty for the sake of the sublime. But politics is other people’s territory. When I hear talk of phone-banking or going door-to-door, my spirit sinks. There’s got to be a better way. I used to attend a church of evangelical fundamentalists who’d go out door-knocking every Thursday night. Yuck, look how this road led to Rome.

(Remind me sometime to write an entry dealing with scapegoating and mob rule.)

So I can’t handle my mom, and I’m fed up with politics. What else is there to say? Life could be so much better than it is: it could be free and rewarding and pleasurable and friendly and worthwhile. To tweak a couple aspects of the economy in favor of sectors of the populace who’ve hereunto been treated pseudo-humanly – this would work miracles. Everyone would be happier if everyone had their basic needs met. Even the richest pinpoint of wealth-hoarders on the graph of your choice would benefit from a world where the average individual feels secure. Why would anyone want to share a globe with folks whose every step is dogged by...

But I suppose that one can acquire enough wealth to sequester oneself away from the teeming multitudes. Buy yourself an island. Or buy yourself a planet. A solar system. Purchase multiverses. Make yourself invisible, omnipotent; then install security cameras everywhere so that you can know the secret thoughts of each human heart. Listen closely to their confessions: with enough study, you can decode their patterns of behavior and even discover what they shall think before they think it.

But why does my mom still cling to this concept of “an holy calling”? She was telling us about my sister’s life, and she said that she (my sister) has almost no free time. I asked, Why is Susan so busy? My mom explained that she’s trying to work a salaried job while also attending school, because (and this is exactly how she put it) “Susan still thinks that she’s called to do oriental medicine.” I said, the way you phrased that, it sounds like you disagree with her choice: you say “she THINKS that she’s called...”—I assume that if you agreed with her, you’d simply say “she’s called.” And my mom admitted that she does have misgivings about Susan’s etc....

I only intended to point out a plain observation about language: Why not just say “So-and-so wants to do blank,” instead of “So-and-so is called to do blank”? since, if you’re called, it’s like something out there beyond yourself is commanding you, ordering you about – some big boss in outer space – and you’re like a servant or slave to this nameless executive. I don’t like that. But I think the attraction of the concept of “calling” comes from the fact that, if you fail, you can blame it on the Ruler; that is, whoever called you: the demiurge Ialdabaoth. Whereas if you fail at something that you yourself singly wanted to do, you have no force to blame for the crash but your own sweet will.

I think that we should be easier on each other. Let’s forgive each other not just our debts but every last detail; forgive mistakes, forgive bad parenting, forgive less-than-perfect career choices, forgive bad-hair days... This way we can offset the god of this world.

I’ll add an extra sentence so that this thing ends sloppier. It’s too serious otherwise.