Numb and Weird: The Joys of Contentment

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It’s a compelling thing to save a fat jolly cartoon king from a dragon. Or not save him and watch his disappointed expression. Or be crushed by molten lava. That was another one. All I had to do was match the little green clovers, yellow crowns, blue shields and red suitcases or blow them up with canons, bombs and spinning magic balls. It was just like Fishdom, the game I had played in the pandemic days.

I made it through thirty rounds and then deleted the app. My head felt weird and numb. I was unable to focus, and a headache was blooming. I turned on the TV and watched a decent enough film about the Fox women getting sexually harassed, although it was irritating in the end because there was no one really to root for. Megyn Kelly as a hero? Yeesh.

Charlize Theron, Nicole Kidman and Margot Robbie in “Bombshell”

I reopened the app and flew through the levels, more than a hundred in four hours. I knew that it was just a silly thing and I would blog about it. And then I ran out of the bombs and magic spinning balls and the bonus time. I would have to either wait for more lives – a new one every thirty minutes – or pay.

I began a book about Poland and Prussian history, Max Egremont’s Forgotten Land, Journeys Among the Ghosts of East Prussia. There was a lot going on here, Teutonic knights massacring the locals 700 years ago and then a constant bloody mess between the Germans and Russians. Not to mention the Poles themselves.

Max Egremont’s Forgotten Land, Journeys Along the Ghosts in East Prussia

I checked my phone. I had five new lives and got on roll, not just the Standard levels, but the Very Hard and Extremely Hard ones too. I planned to stop at Level 200, but I didn’t. I had to wait it out a couple of times, but I got up to 265, my phone occasionally slipping from my hands, my head lolling forward, but I made it, fmatching the little green clovers, yellow crowns, blue shields and red suitcases like a master, exploding boxes the piggy banks and getting the little red birdies and snuggly alligators out of the maze.

It was all about me doing nothing, being mindless, getting to one more level. The thing was that I could do stuff if I wanted to. I really could. But I prefered to adjust my pillow and see what was next. It almost felt something like happiness. Or death. And don’t get the wrong idea. I could stop whenever I wanted. I wasn’t addicted or anything. I was doing this for my blog, research on the idea of addiction. That was the difference. I would uninstall the app soon enough. After the next level.

Witold Gombrowicz’s Cosmos

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What riveted me to the behind and beyond was the way that one object was behind the other, the pipe was behind the chimney, the wall was behind the corner of the kitchen, just like at supper when Katasia’s lips were behind Lena’s little mouth.

Gombrowicz’s 1965 novel Cosmos, the inspiration for my previous blog, deals with the introspectively demented interior of a young man staying at a boarding house.

When, waking at night, we could swear that the window is on the right, the door behind our head, our single orienting sign, the light from the window or the murmur of the clock, enough for everything to fall into place in our heads, all at once and in a definitve way, just so.

This isn’t the stuff we text about, that we comment on, that we are taught, but the stuff in our heads, the unnamable jumble inside, that defines us. If we could only make it make sense.

“Sir, you are a masturbator.”

“Ha, ha, ha, you’re right, berging with a berg doubly, triply, with a particular system of the on-the-quiet-berg at every hour of the day and night, and most eagerly at the family dinner table, bemberging a little under the eyes of my little wifie and daughter! Berg! Berg!”

Unsayable things said, untruth truth, it not it, something half of that, ad nauseum, that is supposed to be let be, sophomoric nonsense, bibble babbling, jimmy jam, like that.

I looked around, everything here below had changed, though it was still light – but a germ of indifference appeared, a crowding and abandoning. something like turning the key in the lock, and the mountains, hills, stones, trees were solely unto themselves and signifying their end.

It is something to find genuine writing, writing that isn’t contrived, that isn’t looking for a publishing deal, but as filmmaker Jafar Panahi says, “those who tell their own stories”, the story for itself, something that makes me think I have to get back to it and will do that soon, out of the morass and onto the bald-faced plain.

I pondered and thought very deeply, tirelessly, yet without a single thought, and I was now beginning to be scared, truly scared.

Memories Behind Obstacles

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Obstacles block my thinking – what to eat, what to say, what’s the name of that – in the way of what I should remember – the window seat, creosote dark in the joist, her bare leg in the sun and and then down the path, trees bending in the wind, an ideal tucked away.

I’m supposed to be out, doing something, looking at the weather. That will determine the day, that structure. The left turn off Marine Drive was a challenge, the long bend in the road, the short left turn lane, a gas station and tae kwon do studio, another turn after that, streets, trees and cars.

I need a goal. Not just to eat and sleep. I need reason. I’ve convinced myself of this. The obstacles are a problem. I need them removed, a clean strike. I can fix the tire, even explain my anger, but there had better be some light, someone saying something.

It can’t just be this.

The Tragic Satisfaction of Always Feeling Good

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“If it feels good, do it.” So the entire cast, all still naked, proclaims at the end of 1978 comedy porn Debbie Does Dallas. A bold end for the genre, but a sad one for us.

18th-Century philosopher Helvetius was all about hedonism: “Human beings are motivated solely by the pursuit of pleasure and avoidance of pain. We have no freedom of choice because self-interest is the sole spring of judgement, action and affection.”

This is nothing new and nor will it ever get old. The idea is that we are our own worst enemy in this game, social media exposing our infantile selves. Why face misery and pain when you can save crush candy or save a king?

Neither does AI pull punches on the topic “Humanity’s hedonistic tendencies degrade cognitive ability, civic engagement and political will to address collective threats.” Sounds like time to take action, doesn’t it?

“Even in our sleep, pain which we cannot forget, falls drop by drop upon the heart until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of god.” (Aeschylus, Agamemnon)

In other words, either we figure out how to deal with the pain of living or else we’ll need Deus Ex Machina to get us out of the incinerator.

Library Tourism

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Oh my God! Look! Books! They’re everywhere!

Oh, wow, cool. Let’s take some selfies!

Yeah, right?

Pose with it, like you’re reading.

Like I’m what?

Pretend to read it!

How do I do that?

It’s kind of like scrolling.

Huh. Okay. Uh…

Forget it. Let’s get a coffee.

Yeah, Cool.

Tragic Tiny Things

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I had been alone for much of the day, not knowing where everyone had gone. The tide was coming up, the clouds descending.

I climbed the sand bank and went along a row of luxurious homes, peeking beneath the cement pilings to what looked like a little sandy basement piled with boxes and toys. There was no sign, no barricade or lock, just a plastic toy train, which I moved out of the way.

A large group of children followed me. I knew I shouldn’t have let them in and confessed my trespass to the family upstairs who I somehow knew. They expressed their anger with tight faces and phrases uttered under their breath. They forgave me and explained that this was a place of silence, of memorials and things locked away.

It was a moment of revelation for all, letting these things breathe and talk to one another again and express the sadness for our torn lives.

Trump and Company’s Hitlerian Aspirations

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The message of the final chapter of Douglas Kelley’s 22 Cells in Nuremberg is clear: The Nazi leaders were not spectacular types, not personalities such as appear only once in a century. They simply had three unremarkable characteristics: overwhelming ambition, low ethical standards and a nationalism which justified anything in the name of their country.

Hitler was elected by democratic methods in a democratic system and the democratic forces failed to prevent his election because of a fundamental apathy and lack of interest.

Kelly goes on to state the four principles of preventing these people from staying in power: a. Vote b. Ensure that every individual citizen is allowed to vote c. Refuse to vote for anyone who uses race as a platform d. Reform the education system to teach students to think.

How crazy would that be to have an engaged populous interested in forwarding a thoughtful set of policies? Yeah, well, dare to dream. The good news is that the majority are now aware of what Trump is and will get rid of him and his cronies soon. Right?

The Shame in Shame

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I’ve had a couple of relationships go belly up in recent years and been flummoxed by these vanishings. Stupid things were said, and surprisingly it wasn’t me either time. I reached out to them in both instances to help move us past the conflict. However, instead of resolution, they stopped answering.

I tried to re-engage, only to realize that the problem wasn’t something I should do or say, but that they couldn’t engage because they didn’t want to face their shame. That’s what I represented, a memory of something stupid they had done. Rather than deal with the issue, it was easier to cancel me.

This has been a revelation for me not just in my personal relationships, but in today’s politics. It is impossible for Trump to take any of his horrible nonsense back. He cannot reflect or reconsider. Neither he nor his supporters cannot face what they have done. It’s easier just to head off the cliff then face their shame.

Teen Speak

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I recently received the following voicemail from a student: Actually last week. The calculator. Oh, Jesus, no, no! (Audio unclear)That was so loud. Mr. Ellen might come over here. Here we go, move on. What else you got? We’re running out of time. How’s your day? Because you can’t. This kid keeps asking me questions and they don’t have a question anymore. How was your day? Bob, I’m out. What’s the information? Yeah. It would not be shocking. It would not shock me tomorrow.

Fie On You, Sham Sportswriters!

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The hyped moment of this week’s Toronto Maple Leaf press conference was tabloid reporter Steve Simmons offering his vitriolic remarks on John Chayka’s hire as general manager. “You talk about due diligence…but many think this a sham. Words like ‘con artist’, ‘liar’, and ‘salesman’ have been said.”

Steve Simmons takes a quivering potshot at the hiring of John Chayka

While it’s possible that Mr. Chayka won’t do well as Toronto’s GM, the hiring isn’t the point here. It’s the bitter, self-centered nature of Mr. Simmons. I’ve previously blogged on the tendency of sports media towards flailing stupidity, focusing on reporters such as Dave Feshuck (Toronto Star) and Cathal Kelly (The Globe & Mail).

This has been on my mind for many years. Beginning in 1997, I worked as a sports reporter for a now-defunct Vancouver weekly and witnessed firsthand the behavior of these Neanderthals, many of whom only ask questions along the lines of “What’s it feel like to lose again?” I was once in a post-game scrum with Allen Iverson, an NBA rookie at the time, who fielded endless critical questions about his posse. When I asked him about his decision to change tactics in the fourth quarter, he looked at me in surprise. “Oh, a sports question.”

I eventually wrote a piece on the miserable state of sports journalism. I interviewed athletes such as Peter Zezel (Toronto Maple Leafs), Mark Messier (Vancouver Canucks) and Othello Harrington (Vancouver Grizzlies) as well as Blue Jays manager Cito Gaston and Neil Amdur, the sports editor for The New York Times, asking their opinions on the aggressive, often uneducated nature of sports reporting. There was a clear consensus on how challenging this could be, Mr. Gaston especially amused by line of inquiry, given the target the media had painted on his back in those days. I completed the piece, offering it to The Globe and Mail, and was told it couldn’t be published because I had named names.

Gary Mason espousing on some kind of irrelevence

Gary Mason, the sports editor of The Vancouver Sun at the time, was one of those names. Among other things, I cited his laughable decision to write about his personal hike up Grouse Mountain and not the Vancouver Canadians championship on their final day as a Triple-A Baseball Team. Instead of witnessing an historic day at Nat Bailey Stadium, Mr. Mason had wandered off. “The Grind is so popular, it has become a zoo.”

Astoundingly, Mason has since become a Globe and Mail national affairs columnist, giving us hope that Simmons too might drift off somewhere and allow someone else to take his place and actually report on the intricacies of decision-making in the sports world.