Oh brother, where art the readers? Read a magazine? Who does? Show me the cocktail stick! Magazines are made to skim. They are the low-fat lattes that all the young mothers and housewives drink or they are the cud that all the husbands and young dads on a bender want to chew. And then there are those that pretend to be read but it’s all untrue because there are readouts and captions. Some are even called readers’ magazines, but then why the need for double-truck photos?
It’s all a game, isn’t it? Existence is just a game. Why do we as a society feel the need to hoodwink our felon man? Could it be because, in truth, we mistrust each other? Think the other is out to get us so we must get to them first? What a crazy, nasty place we must live in then. Give me croquet and I’ll whack my ball and let the rabid dogs brawl.
I don’t dislike people as much as get disappointed by their lack of imagination or the void in their intellect. Buying and selling is like the worm gnawing a path through the green apple solely to say, Hey, this is bad, let’s start all over again and sell you a really tasty apple. And then the damn worm does the same thing all over again ad nauseam. I like this quote from Ovid — it’s from his Ars Amatoria, which is basically a handbook for dating and lovers — and it’s this: “If some dust should settle/ In your girl’s lap, flick it away/ With your fingers; and if there’s no dust,/ Still flick away — nothing.”
What we need are books that make meaning,connection, and purpose in a world that presents life as an illusion. Books like The Myth of Sisyphus where Camus writes about either turning to recovery or suicide. And I believe that recovery is what we need, and so did Camus. We can recover from the consumerism and the paucity of thought and imagination.
Imagine a world-wide suicide! The Internet swamped with home videos of whole nations committing suicide. Not possible. Unless you believe that we are actually doing this by our failure to see the destruction of wars and the way in which we so mindlessly go about destroying this planet.
I would so love to find that place Fitzgerald wrote about: “The fade-out of a single sorrow.” I wish the sorrow of the world could be so faded out.
A Moomin Papa who pulls his big black hat down over his eyes and sighs it back up again.