On Having a Few Beers

I used to drink too much.  I was never an alcoholic or dependent on alcohol, but I was definitely a problem drinker.  I drank to get drunk (very, very drunk) multiple times a week.  I vomited and urinated on furniture.  I hurled unwarranted verbal abuse at friends.  I got violent with bouncers.  I woke up feeling sick and anxious, wrapping my head around the vague memories of all the harm I'd caused the night before.  

I also had a lot of fun. 

But now I've entered a new period of my life, a stage in which alcohol plays a much smaller part.  I drink one, two, or maybe three beers about once every two weeks.  And it's fantastic. 

Having a base-line of sobriety (as opposed to the old semi-drunk normal) makes drinking just a few beers a much more enjoyable experience.  Before going to the store, thinking that "tonight I'll unwind a bit" fills me with a muted-but-satisfactory pleasure.  The beer tastes good, much better than it ever did when it was only a means to an end.  Just a few sips gets me buzzing in a way I never even recognized when "partying" was the aim.  I'm not drunk, my personality hasn't been changed, and yet there's an extra beauty in the black silhouettes of the mountains before the cobalt blue of the darkening early-night sky, the cadence, melody, and rhythm of a piece of music, the mysterious hopscotch of my wandering thoughts.  It's a joy I could never have experienced when alcohol served such a different function in my life.   

Ah, to have a beer.  And another.  Maybe one more.  Then gulp down a glass of water, tell someone how much you love them, and go to bed eager for the radiant clarity of the coming day.

Cheers.  

Update- Turns Out Schedules are a Necessary Evil

Quick recap: last Sunday, I attempted to avoid clocks and live moment-to-moment without basing my behavior on the rigid structures of time.  It provided welcome relief from the normal stresses of maintaining a schedule, and, based on what I'd learned from the experiment, I resolved to find a "middle way" between complete clock-avoidance and neurotic adherence to a fixed routine.

This past week was to mark the beginning of my new life, with my natural inclinations playing a greater role in determining my actions.  It was supposed to help me feel more relaxed.  Well, unfortunately, it didn't quite work out that way. 

I decided on Monday that, instead of working a certain amount of hours every day, I would set a weekly goal and allow myself to meet it by working whenever I felt like it.  I was finally to take proper advantage of being a freelancer. 

On Monday there weren't too many good jobs available, and instead of pushing myself to work anyway I sat down with a book.  Total flexibility and a lack of schedules was looking great!

On Tuesday I worked just a little, ignoring my nascent apprehension at falling behind.  Wednesday morning, I couldn't resist the urge to read because the book was just so darn enjoyable.  By that evening I realized I had barely worked at all that week, it would be incredibly difficult to meet my goal, and I might have to forget my objective all together.  I felt pathetic, and, yes, far more stressed than I ever had when sticking to my schedule.

So now it's back to the old lifestyle, reliably breaking out the laptop when the clock tells me to do so.  Sometimes, it seems,  self-learning doesn't bring new habits, but a reaffirmed commitment to the trusty conventions of old.

Reflections on my "Day Without Time"

First, a recap:  Yesterday I endeavored to ignore the time and live each moment without the label of hours and minutes.  It seemed an interesting exploration of how the rigid construct of time affects the human psyche. 

Now, an admission: Staying completely ignorant of the time proved impossible.  For one thing, the ubiquitous presence of clocks in the corners of devices made it difficult to stay aloof.  To avoid an inopportune glance at the clock required constant vigilance, and every so often I slipped up.  Also, so well-ingrained is the habit checking the time that I did it a few times as a sort of reflex before I could stop myself.  What's more, the fact that I had to consciously will myself not to check the time meant that the time was constantly on my mind.  It's a bit like the "don't think of a pink elephant" phenomenon: the more I focused on ignoring the time, the more I wondered what time it was.  

All the same, my little experiment was not a total failure.  I did succeed in living a less rigidly-structured day, and I enjoyed the sense of freedom this change afforded me.  While reading a short story in the evening, it was liberating to know I could finish whenever and then eat dinner, even if I was still only half way through the story when "dinner time" arrived.  It was nice to move from one activity to the next, without the arbitrary segmentation of time forcing adherence to an unnecessary schedule.

I'll try to learn from this experience and carry it forward into my daily life.  Covering clocks with masking tape or refusing to check the time when my fiancee asks (like I did yesterday) is just silly, and with certain activities (especially those like work and writing that I'm liable to skip) a schedule instills necessary discipline.  But there's no reason I have to eat my mid-morning snack at exactly 11 AM each day, and to feel a sense of guilt or anxiety to finish my work quickly because "snack time" is approaching is an unnecessary source of manufactured stress.  

So, once again, the middle way is the path best-traveled.  No surprises there.

I think I'm hungry now, so I'll go eat some Coco Crispies.    And I won't avoid the clock before shutting my computer, but won't let it determine my behavior either.  

A Day Without Time

Time.  Its passage might be inevitable, but the way we experience it is not.  There’s no reason we have to divide the day into seconds, minutes, and hours.  This segmented concept of time is developed within our cultures.  We’re not born with it; we learn it.  

I can barely fathom the extent to which this notion of time must affect our psychologies.  The twenty-four hour clock provides the framework for almost all our daily activities, telling us when to wake up and when to leave home, when we should go to bed and when it’s time to eat.  Even with activities that aren’t explicitly scheduled, we hold somewhere in our minds an idea of “how long” we’ll be engaged, invariably measuring that “how long” in hours and minutes.  

I’ve long wondered what it would be like to step outside this system, even if just for a day.  With Guatemala (where I’m living) on Covid lockdown tomorrow, I think I’m going to give it a try.  

The idea is simple: twenty-four hours with no clocks, no schedule, and no measuring of time.  I’ll eat when I’m hungry, read until I feel like stopping, and go to bed when I’m tired. 

I’m curious to see how my mind reacts.  Will I relish the natural flow of moments into moments?  Or will I feel tense, stressed, uneasy, robbed of that supreme organizing tool by which I normally plan my life?

In any case, it’ll be a different sort of day.  I’ll report back on Monday.   

Twitter, and Questioning the Political Utility of Perpetual Outrage

So this is my first month on Twitter.  As expected, I find myself very much inside a “liberal bubble” on the platform.  This isn’t a situation I sought out.  All I did was follow one or two writers I respect, then added other accounts (politicians, journalists, publishing houses) that Twitter suggested.  The politics of those first writers went on to shape the contours of my Twitter-sphere.   

The most obvious problem with this, an issue people have been speaking about for years, is the infamous “echo chamber” of information.  The neighborhood of Twitter I’ve moved into is inhabited by people who think pretty much like me, and they share stories that reaffirm my worldview. 

But I’ve noticed another pernicious effect.  Not only are the same ideas batted about my Twitter neighborhood like balloons in a small room, but there’s also a concurrent outrage directed at right-wing idiocy that becomes further and further amplified.  The outrage is usually justified, but I’m not sure it’s always entirely useful.  

Take, for example, what happened to me yesterday.  I was scrolling through Twitter (because I have one, because it seems like something I should do, because “twi…” is now among the things I type into the search bar when I want to put off working), and I came across a video of Tucker Carlson railing against the “bizarre measures” that schools will be employing to diminish the spread of the coronavirus, outrageous schemes like wearing masks and staying six feet apart, none of which, Carlson asserts, have any basis in science.  As intended by the liberal neighbor who posted the clip, my sense of outrage came quickly..  How could he say something so preposterous?!  What is the country coming to?!  How can anyone have the nerve to spew such lies, such malicious propaganda that will get people killed, just in the self-interested pursuit of ratings!?

I texted my father.  I paced frantically around the room.  I scoured the web for opinion pieces laying into the Republicans for their anti-science bent.  

And what did I accomplish?  I certainly didn’t learn anything new.  That Republicans in general and the perpetually-sneering Carlson in particular have little-to-no regard for science is far from news to me.  These are, after all, the same people providing life-support to the laughable idea that climate change is a “hoax.”  

My opinion of Republicans, Fox News, and Carlson was exactly the same after watching the clip as it had been beforehand.  The only thing that changed was the visceral nature of my outrage. 

And, in the form it took yesterday morning, that outrage was useless.  It inspired no political action.  It brought about no internal change.  All it did was send coursing through my body simultaneous currents of anger and self-righteousness.

This is not a critique of outrage in general.  There are times when deplorable actions deserve all the attention they get.  Outrage about racist behavior, much of it on Twitter, has had an unquestionably positive impact and prompted a lot of necessary conversations (which will, hopefully, compel policy changes). 

I just wonder if compiling outrage on top of outrage is always the most fruitful expenditure of time and emotional energy.  In my personal experience, I leave Twitter feeling a lot more angry but no more empowered, and having learned absolutely nothing.  

My first solution to this problem was to stay off Twitter altogether, but after some reflection I’ve decided there’s a better option: put the outrage to good use, rather than simply letting it stew.  I’m not exactly sure how to go about doing this, but I’m pretty sure it will involve less clips of Tucker Carlson and more being proactive.  

Envy for the "Florid Grandiosity" of the Baroque

I've recently begun an aural sojourn through the history of classical music, lead by Jan Swafford and his book "The Language of the Spirit: An Introduction to Classical Music.  (If, like me, you find yourself intrigued by the beauty and grace of classical music but don't have the basic knowledge you feel you need to really appreciate it, I highly recommend this book.  It's exactly what I was looking for, and gives the perfect amount of suggested listening for each style and composer).  

After a quick pass through the medieval era (replete with Gregorian chants and embryonic polyphony), I came to the brazen fanfare and glorifying pomp of the baroque period.  What a rush that music can provide!  While Bach and Handel can certainly be subtle, there's also a bombastic element to much of their music, a burst of energy (often spiritual) that Swafford calls a "florid grandeur."

While listening to this music, I couldn't help feeling that despite its brilliance I couldn't quite identify with it.  Why?  I think it's because the music of that period, much of it expressing the contemporaneous religious fervor, evokes a sense of unshackled exaltation that many of us can no longer relate to.  

In the worldview (so common today) with no religion, no strident nationalism, and no illusions of other-worldly grandeur, nothing really seems worthy of the excessive pomp expressed in most baroque music.  In the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, a riveting ode to the divine miracle of Christ seemed an appropriate piece of art.  Since then, we've come through (sticking to classical music) the moody modernity of Erik Satie and ultimately arrived at the avant-garde irony of John Cage.  In the last hundred years, our sense of the sublime has come to be too subtle for excessive bombast.

And yet I can't help feeling envious when I hear baroque music, wishing I could sympathize with the rabid exaltation.  We've gotten to the point now where Handel's famous "Hallelujah!" conclusion to the second part of his oratorio "Messiah" reminds us first and foremost of Chevy Chase in "Christmas Vacation."  I long for the type of resounding belief in something, anything that would compel an non-ironic, arresting rapture like what Handel must have felt in his devotion to Christ.  I wish I, like King George II when he first heard that incomparable ode, was driven to my feet, my chest bursting and my veins swollen with the power of immeasurable feeling.  

But no- the current era is one for walking down a lonesome city street in the rain, whistling a weary tune.  We can only hope something mildly pretty- an illuminated drop of water slipping from the edge of a gutter or a laughing little girl- can introduce a little beauty amid the snickers, scoffing, and banal meandering of the postmodern everyday.  

Handel's "Hallelujah"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7YaGwI7GjlA

Quotes and the Bible

Ah, quotes.  They're short, they're sweet, and they're perfect for the digital age.  What better way to share some wisdom (and advertise your own) than by posting the brilliant aphorism of some legendary figure?

The problem with quotes is that they're inherently reductive.  They're taken out of context, and no matter how profound they can't help falling short of a cogent argument or a coherent idea.  

These limitations are most emphatically evident when analyzing our habit of repeating snippets of what must be the most quoted work of all time: the Bible.  The good book is perhaps the most influential work in the history of humanity, but it is also among the most complex.  It tells the story of a God who is kind and merciful, but who becomes enraged when King Saul fails, as ordered, to kill every living soul in a city he's smitten.  It provides insight and wisdom that is often profound but rarely entirely clear.  To properly understand it requires tireless analysis and a holistic approach.  It is particularly liable to be misunderstood when its phrases are wantonly quoted.  

And yet quote it we do, again and again.  We display its verses on buildings.  We tattoo them on our bodies.  We spread them about our political speeches.  All this is to the detriment of a true understanding. 

Take, for example, the Book of Proverbs, perhaps the most quotable section of all.  Proverbs 10:4 reads, "He becometh poor that dealeth with a slack hand, but the hand of the diligent maketh rich."  Taken out of context, this verse seems a straightforward promotion of attaining material wealth.  You can even imagine members of a certain American political party using it to push for lower taxes on the rich and cutting benefits to the "slack-handed" poor.  When this verse is read in context, however, "riches" takes on a whole new meaning.  Proverbs 8:18-19 reads, "Riches and honor are with me; yea, durable riches and righteousness.  My fruit is better than gold, yea, than fine gold; and my revenue than choice silver."  The "richness" attained by the diligent is not to be taken to mean material wealth, but could be better understood as the "durable riches" of wisdom.

This is not to say that quotes, even those from the Bible, are worthless.  It's just to remind us that context always matters.  

But hey, what do I know?  Having just read Proverbs 29:11 ("A fool uttereth all his mind, but a wise man keepeth it in till afterward"), I'm wondering if I should even be posting at all!

But then, maybe I need to go back and read that latest Proverb in context...

Happy Fourth of July.  The Black Hills belong to the Lakota.  

"Online Presence"- Twitter and Blogging

So I've got a Twitter account, and I've got a blog.  I'm finally doing what any aspiring writer (and most aspiring anythings) are encouraged to do: I'm establishing an online presence. 

But I'm not thrilled about it, for two main reasons. 

The first is that these platforms epitomize everything that's wrong with the tl;dr (too long; didn't read) attitude so dominant today.  Most ideas are complicated, and they require a lot more than 280 characters or a couple of paragraphs to expound.  By conforming with this culture of brevity, I'm afraid I'm only contributing to the problem

My second concern is that I really have no right to expect anyone to give a damn.  Why should anywhere care what I think?  And if I'm going to be so presumptuous as to request an audience, shouldn't it be for a work I've spent serious time completing?  Sure, I can ask you to read my book, because it represents months of effort.  A polished piece, a novel or a story, is the ultimate distillation of an artist's thoughts and creativity.  But a blog post written between bites of pizza on a Thursday afternoon?  A tweet published on a whim?  Who cares?  I certainly wouldn't.

And yet I'm asking you to read my blog and follow me on Twitter anyway.  (It looks like my self-promotion skills are woefully lacking.)  I hope you'll find something endearing in this forthright disavowal of my own project.  One thing I insist on in my writing is honesty (well, in a certain sense- read below to see what I mean). 

 So, follow me on Twitter! https://twitter.com/BenjaminClabau2

And check back in on the blog!  I hope to keep posting every few days.  

Keep smiling.  Wear a mask.  Black lives matter. 

On Lying

So I misled readers in my last post.  I suggested that I never leave home except for the odd trip to the grocery store, when in fact I've visited my fiancee's family three times in the past two weeks.  I hid the truth in favor of a lie that better illustrated the point I was making.  

What's worse, I consciously posted that lie with today's post (about lying) in mind!

 I'm not alone in forging an alternative reality for the sake of expediency, not in a massive my-inauguration-crowd-was-the-biggest kind of way, but in a series of minute deviations from the truth that only display their pull power when taken as a whole.  

We humans are nasty little specimens, aren't we?