[NOTE: This entry & yesterday’s were both written about a month ago, but I set them aside instead of posting them immediately. So, the entry below is honestly what I woke up thinking on the day after a family get-together — I’m just late in sharing it.]
Dear diary,
Mother’s Day 2022. I met with my family. They’re good people. It was nice.
Now I’m sitting here, the morning after, trying to figure out why I’m so different, why I’m so negative. All I can think about is how horrible everything is. This sounds like a cliché but it’s true. It seems to me that this world (or rather what our forefathers have made of it) is not worth contributing to: for humans, it’s beyond the point of redemption. Yet everyone else seems to think that it’s at least passable.
Since my brother has kids now, I think about the future from the children’s point of view. Again, cliché questions: What will the world be like for the next generation, and for the age that’s yet to be born? I can’t see anything positive about it: chaotic climate conditions and incessant warfare. Instead of passions or careers and meaningful employment, they’ll have daily-grind labor in a gig economy. No free time. No housing available. Health care? Die quietly.
And all art shall be even worse than it is at present.
I tried to engage my sister in a conversation about this. She’s in her thirties; she lives with our mom; she hopes someday to find a spouse and have children. I always assume that she’ll be angry at her generation’s lack of opportunity — for the life they’ve been given to live is obscenely unfair. But she’s always optimistic. I brought up how the aftermath of the 2001 September 11 attacks was a huge blow to my own generation — not the atrocity itself; we’re strong enough to weather that; but the legislature that followed in its wake. I was in my twenties when all that happened. And I added that this whole coronavirus pandemic seems like another phase of the same blank. I’m in my mid-forties now. So, in my twenties, the rug was pulled out from beneath us; and now, after spending the next two decades regaining our footing, the same scam happens again: life’s game board is upended and all the rules change. What’s the point of trying, working hard and establishing anything from a family to any type of business or art, if at any moment the whole culture & economy could come crashing down, and you lose everything, after discovering that the societal safety nets, which were supposed to have been installed to ease such tragedy, prove defective or even malevolent!
In either case (9/11 or COVID-19) the state could’ve helped its people rather than intensifying the harm, but it did the latter decidedly. It seems obvious to me that there’s no hope: this type of thing is going to keep happening and happening and happening. Plan however cleverly you wish, but those who are willing either to cause or take advantage of disasters will lord over us all. For humankind, progress is impossible. We can only choose between different flavors of opprossion.
I conveyed some version of the above complaints during our dinner conversation, aiming the inquiry at my sister, because, like I said, she’s still young and desires someday to marry, have children, advance in her career or possibly go into business for herself. I thought that she would agree AT LEAST that the deck is stacked against her generation, if not that there is absolutely no hope at all. My sister answered that the solution to all these evils is Kundalini yoga. I’m not kidding: that was her answer. Just perform Kundalini yoga and you’ll grow clear-minded, she said, and then you’ll be able to earn enough money to live on, and good things will happen. All you need to do is try.
So my problem is that I haven’t been trying hard enough to do Kundalini yoga. I’ve been relying on alcohol to calm my nerves while our overlords abuse us.
I’ll copy the definition that popped up after a quick Internet search: “Kundalini yoga involves chanting, singing, breathing exercises, and repetitive poses. Its purpose is to activate your spiritual energy, which is said to be located at the base of your spine.”
(“Base of your spine.” Why don’t they just say “asshole”?)
A financier approaches me and declares: “Mister Bryan, you owe me thousands of dollars, because you inhaled some fresh air. I own all the air. Pay me now. Debt is a moral obligation.”
When I refuse to recognize this financier’s authority, he whistles and then two armed thugs aim their weapons at my face. “Now do you agree that I am the atmosphere’s owner?” the financier asks.
“Yes,” I say, after doing some yoga to center myself. “Here is your first of many payments.”
The financier smiles and says: “Thank you for your service.”
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