Born under a bad star. That’s gotta be it. I mean, what other explanation can there be? How could it all go so bad so fast and for so long? My mother should have named me Jane, if only she’d lived long enough to see that name to its fruition. It’s not for lack of effort. I sobered up, spent a year and a half in therapy, started 2 businesses, years of meditation and spiritual pursuit, blogged, mountain biked, rafted, painted and cried into countless bowls of ice cream. Here’s hoping for even a partial fairy tale ending. What was that cartoon? Fractured Fairy Tales? Yep.
I’m not regular. This can either result in a Bill Gates scenario or something along the lines of Kafka with part of his ear missing ala Van Gogh. If only I’d taken the beaten path. Mom would have slept easier and had a grandchild or two to spoil. I would have been up nights trying to unravel a quiet but persistent gnawing in my gut. So, bloodied, weary and compelled by a force I both bless and curse, I draw my sword to charge the battlefield.
Things were already eroding in 2006. It went bad for good October 2008. The Bull was gelded and the Bear was chewing everybody’s ass. Years of working for mediocre wages saving any spare in a valiant attempt on the American Dream was gone in seconds. They lied. About everything. The working (wo)man bailed out the banks and the auto industry truly believing the favor would be returned. Nope. Greed ruled the day. Banks make those obscene bonuses on our feeble debt ridden backs. Tough beans baby. The air’s damn fine up here and I’m not giving it up for that noodle you call a spine. If you’re willing to forfeit integrity, you can have it too.
Except peace of mind is free. The intoxicating smell of the sweet fern at the cottage is free. The property taxes sure aren’t, however. Always that pesky financial fly in my serenity ointment. It is possible to come up with enough money to support basic needs allowing for a lung full of northern air without compromising values. Can I be satisfied if I accomplish nothing but that? There’s the rub. As a Westerner who grew up post 1950 in the American rise to superpower, it’s tough to let go of that sales pitch. Stuff. We love, love, lovey, love our stuff. And up to October 2008, you could pretty much get your hands on anything your heart desired. Damn. Blast. Back to sniffing linseed oil for thrills.
Even at the onset of American success, we honored the regular Joe. My parents never bought anything on credit. You saved. When you had enough, you went out and bought that shiny new washing machine. In cash. Whoa. Then came TV, advertising and branding. Andy Warhol seized on our developing infatuation with acquisition immortalizing Campbell’s, Brillo, and Sunoco. For a price. Of course. I maintain Warhol was far more a genius marketer than he ever was a celebrated fine artist. Society has fully embraced celebrity. Whether it’s Mercedes Benz or a humiliating but viral run on YouTube, collectively we are willing to do anything for one Andy Warhol moment. Narcissus would be hospitalized by now. As China owns more of us funding Tomahawk missile launches into countries we are trying to “save” while leaving our beleaguered own on idealized Main Street to starve, I think we’re still lolling about in a dream haze. My problem is I’m fully awake and it sucks. It’s ugly. My ideas on how I thought my life would play out are being pried from my cold dead hands.
I resist. Fight. NO! You can’t have it! But it’s already gone, ahem, with the wind. Not unlike the days of the glorious South, of cavaliers and gallantry, it had to change because it was supported by heinous practices. The Roman foundation cracked on depravity. Civilizations begin with good intentions in the pursuit of wisdom, spirituality, equality and freedom. It always starts with an idea that appears to benefit even the commonest of citizens. It always ends benefiting a few at the expense of everyone else. Is this the end of America the Superpower? It’s certain as long as we ignore America the Beautiful.
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