Walks

There are a few things in life I genuinely enjoy. Here are some of them:

1. Interesting discussions with close friends.

2. Reading my favorite authors in silence and semidarkness.

3. A glass of dry white wine and a Red House Painters album playing on vinyl.

4. Empty, snow-covered highways under a pink winter sky.

5. Late-night walks.

I really enjoy walks late at night, when everyone is sleeping. In these moments I am able to pretend that the world has decided to boycott action. No one will rise in the morning to perpetuate the vicious cycle of labor and consumption.

The best time might be in the fall. I like the smell of decaying leaves weaving its way through the crisp air. Sometimes I walk by myself; other times I walk with a friend. If I am alone, I might think about the latest book I am reading, or an album I've had on repeat. When I am with a friend, we might discuss films we enjoy or restaurants we should try. When I am walking, I can clear my head and focus on things that really matter.

My walks usually last 45 minutes or so, and during this time I feel invincible. For a few fleeting minutes of my life, anything is possible. With my legs in constant motion, I picture myself seamlessly beginning my next task after the walk is over. When I was writing my thesis and felt fatigued from generating words, I would head outside for a walk. This energized me and restored my fantasy of limitless potential, which would carry me through the evening.

We can sometimes improve our walks with a shot of espresso or maybe even a cigar. The taste of the coffee or the smell of the cigar smoke provides a tangible sense that pins down the moment. And depending on the choice of food, beverage, or inhalant, each walk takes on its own character.

Emil Cioran used to take walks through the Luxembourg Gardens. When I visited Paris, I made sure to do this. I also recreated a walk through certain streets he would pass through late at night. As I walked, I wondered what he had thought about when he was in motion. Did he think much about writing during his walks, or did he even think at all?

When people pass away, it becomes painfully clear that their thoughts and unpublished words die with them. I felt this feeling yesterday when I found out Howard Zinn had passed away. I felt the same way when I visited Emil Cioran's grave. If I am wrong about the future, maybe I will have the opportunity to ask Cioran what he thought about in the Luxembourg Gardens, or if he even thought at all. I would like to do that someday.

Idiocracy and Nuance

Why do we feel the need to dissect every action, every word? Why must we find the motivation behind everything? Why can't we leave things alone? When someone happens to wear a particular shirt that differs from his normal attire, why must we ask why he chose to wear it?

On some level, we're all surgeons well-versed in the art of dissection. We use our scalpels to peel back the layers and probe the minutiae of everyday existence. We parse gestures and phrases. We search for answers. "Seek and you might find," we should have been told. No matter. We seek regardless, and if we find no answers, we contrive our own.

Gossip is the symptom of this sickness—the overwhelming need to speculate, the overarching thirst for confirmation. One day I will parade through the streets with a broom in my right hand. Or maybe I will wear yellow on a Monday. I'm curious to hear the motivation behind a broomstick or the meaning of a random hue.

Moreover, why the need for nuance that drives our words to obscurity? Why can't we just say things? Tonight is the president's State of the Union speech. The television pundits can't wait to devour his words and salivate over every vowel. They will read between the lines, praise his careful choice of words, commend his calculated pragmatism, as they might call it.

In spite of our likely downward spiral into a world only slightly removed from that of Mike Judge's Idiocracy, there is a small tinge of hope in this decline: a retarded species has no need for nuance. It acts on a more basic level, eschewing equivocation for a more direct form of communication. Behold the words of Mr. Dwayne Elizondo Mountain Dew Herbert Camacho, the president of Mike Judge's world, as he gives his own state of the union speech:

Shut up. Shit. I know shit's bad right now...with all that starvin' bullshit. And the dust storms. And we runnin' out of french fries and burrito coverings. But I got a solution.

[Machine-gun rounds]

That's what I thought! Now I understand everyone's shit's emotional right now, but listen up. I got a three-point plan to fix everything. Number one: we got this guy, Not Sure. Number two: he's got a higher IQ than any man alive! And number three: he's gonna fix everything. I give you my word as president. He'll fix the problems with all the dead crops. He's gonna make 'em grow again. And that ain't all.

[Singing] I give you my word. He's gonna fix the dust storms too. I give you my word. He's gonna fix the "ecomony." And he's so smart he's gonna do it all in one week...

When President Camacho speaks, you know exactly what he means.

In a Slate.com article from today entitled "Speech Therapy," Christopher Beam writes the following:

"Communications failure" is the phrase being used by the White House and assorted commentators to explain the collapse of health care reform and other parts of President Obama's agenda. According to this reasoning, Obama hasn't pursued the wrong goals. He has simply failed to articulate them. And tonight's State of the Union could somehow change that.

President Obama is quoted in the article concerning his failure to articulate: "What I haven't always been successful at doing is breaking through the noise and speaking directly to the American people in a way that during the campaign you could do."

Mr. Obama is definitely on to something there. Maybe he should take a cue from President Camacho.

Suffocation of the Species

I look forward to the day when we will have exhausted every possibility in the realm of ideas. Having no impetus for action—that animal instinct engendered by anxiety and the need for movement—we will simply cease to stir. No longer sustained by any pretense of the possible, we will discard our faith in progress and turn to sloth instead.

Enlightened creatures of the ineffectual, we will then cast off our gods as inferior to our cause. After all, they are officious and petty gods who were incapable of rising above their need to create. They craved a certain perpetual motion of the species, and so contrived our existence to satisfy themselves.

In time we will develop an asceticism of ambiguity to protest the cosmic misdeed of our creators. Our new religion, relying at first on the collective cry of "no," will climax in a doubt that paralyzes us. Wallowing in a semblance of potentiality in which everything is possible and yet nothing really is, we will finally grasp the beauty of atrophy and the sublimity of sleep.

It is quite astonishing, really, when one looks around at those who will do anything—anything at all—to stave off ennui. But in running away from one monster, we run instead toward another—one even more efficient in extinguishing us. The symptoms of our disease—war, poverty, discrimination in every form—are nothing more than the ill effects of motion, a gift from our benefactors, those divine engineers of a flawed species.

We cling to our hopes and choose to effect them with movement. But instead of our constant fits—those affronting and inefficient uses of the calorie—what if we chose to do nothing? As a species, could we handle the outcome? No thirst for power. No need to deliberate or even speak. No search for meaning in Walmart.

And in our state of collective inertia, the act of procreation would cease. What would be the point of propagating an inanimate species? In the supreme reversal of roles, only the stillborn would matter.

Deriving meaning from movement, human beings would lose their footing in a world devoid of instances. Overcome by the mere need to breathe, the race might even manage to suffocate itself at the endpoint of its fatigue. The gods would look down on their handiwork, those wretched beings convulsing for lack of air, for lack of anything.

It would be a suicide for the ages, the culmination of a protest beginning in despair and ending in silence. How fortunate we would be to experience the end of history through the act of asphyxiation—suffocation of the species—the only event in which we would be lucky enough to annihilate ourselves in torpor.

Questioning the Corpse

I have always enjoyed taking strolls through graveyards, even in elementary school. Maybe it's easier to derive pleasure from graveyards when few people you know are buried in them.

Most graveyards I've seen are beautiful places. This is probably for the benefit of the living since the dead no longer appear to have the ability to appreciate them. I've always been curious about the ways in which people choose where they want to be buried. They always seem to plan for death from the perspective of the living, which makes sense; it's difficult to plan from the opposite perspective since so few of us have experienced it. "I want to be buried in the corner of that field under the oak tree. That will shield me from the Sun and keep me cool." What if dead bodies don't like to be cool? What if there is something about this state that makes them crave warmth? If so, most of us will be very disappointed once we get there.

The idea of burying dead people seems so odd when we take time to think about it. Centuries ago, the running tally of dead people was much lower, and we didn't think much about where to put them all. Human beings operate on a very limited time horizon; they don't think about these things until they become a problem. And so they put decomposing corpses in boxes and place them in the ground to stay there—potentially forever, depending on your religious beliefs.

What if human beings happen to be correct in their belief that the species will perpetuate itself forever? Where will we put all of the fresh corpses? Perhaps by then, we will have conquered Mars, and the private sector will pounce on the chance to ship them there. I imagine this will unfairly burden the lower classes, who will be unable to afford the transportation costs. Then we will debate the idea that all human beings were born with the right to be buried, which will clog up the courts for a few years. Over time, governments might decide to subsidize the shipment of corpses to faraway planets. The right will probably get upset about this, arguing that corpses of the lower class should be cremated instead. Radicals and other misfits might argue that everybody should be cremated.

In the future, will we continue to bury ourselves and construct more beautiful graveyards? Will we have to drive everywhere (assuming we are still burdened by the automobile) surrounded by cemeteries? I fear their ubiquity might detract from their beauty, and so I would probably take the stance in favor of cremation, making me a radical.

What if we do not gain access to Mars and are forced to dig up old corpses to replace them with fresh ones? Imagine the complications. How will we choose which corpses to dig up? Will it be based simply on duration of expiration, or will we value people based on their profession or social status, as we do now? And furthermore, will we all be guaranteed a limited duration of time in the ground? Perhaps we will place atomic clocks on gravestones to ensure everyone's right to a proper burial, as outlined in our amended Constitution.

I love walking through graveyards because corpses don't care much for conversation. They don't worry about the weather or ask me if they look fat in their burial attire, which they do not. But when I contemplate a future devoid of space to store them, their lack of words suddenly becomes a problem. They are, after all, the ones best suited to answer these questions.

Stagnation of the Species

I am filled with ambivalence and uncertainty about virtually everything. Observe the way I use the word "virtually" in the previous sentence. Uncomfortable and unable to commit to a statement of absolute certainty, I always give myself room to maneuver; I always leave myself an out. I think of how I answer even simple questions. For example, sometimes people ask me what I will be doing after work or on the weekend. "I'll probably relax. Maybe watch a movie." This is how I often respond. I rarely complete such sentences without using words like "probably" or "maybe" or "rarely." I want to complete my sentences without using these words, but I cannot. Usually.

I am assaulted daily by a blizzard of news stories that never stop. Thirsting for knowledge to pin down the world, I do my best to discriminate and digest the important details. But what are the important details? The more I read, the more unsure I am of the answer. I watch other people hunker down and take sides. "The health care bill is a necessary evil. Pass it," one might say. "The health care bill is nothing but a handout to the insurance industry. Don't pass it," another might shout. Both arguments seem valid. Which side do I choose? All too often I feel that my opinion is born out of capriciousness and incomplete information.

I wonder how often people continue to advance a particular argument because they had happened to publicly announce it the previous week. In their struggle for consistency in spite of honesty, they make the same argument this week. Afraid to choose an opposing side in the face of contrary evidence, they merely parrot the points made by their comrades. How often does this happen?

And to complicate matters, we are molested by a media that prides itself on prodding consumers to make irrational decisions. If it's difficult to make a decision with unadulterated information, how can we possibly do so with lies prancing among half-truths?

Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up and take a different tack in my quest for answers. Then again, maybe I won't. Maybe I'll grow tired of the act of analysis and elevate ignorance to the status of a religion. Then again, maybe I'll continue down the same path and ignore my personal heresies. Maybe next week I'll denounce my complicity in this game of musical chairs disguised as progress. Then again, maybe I'll watch a movie instead, or merely speculate on the stagnation of the species. In this way, I won't completely shed my culpability in perpetuating our false hopes and eternal illusions, but I will be able to elaborate on my guilt in theory. At the very least, this should allow me to sleep well at night.

Perhaps we would be better off as vegetables—a piece of broccoli, or perhaps lettuce—uncorrupted by the mere temptation to discern. Forced into an existence anterior to ambulation, the mere idea of action becomes derogatory. And in a world devoid of action, there are no events to ponder and no sides to take. In the disdain we show for the supposed insignificance of the plant kingdom, we subtly point the finger back at ourselves. Inflicted with the tendency to elevate the illusion of progress above all else, we choose to run in place rather than refrain from running at all. On this matter, at least, I know which side I choose.

Healthy Eating

I was told by a server at the hospital cafeteria today that I "eat healthy," and there was not a hint of irony in her voice. I was nonplussed and finally settled on a thank-you even though I was certain she was mistaken. When people tell you something you are supposed to interpret as a compliment, the painless response is to thank them and avoid a polite rebuttal. And besides, I now know that at least one person in the world thinks my diet is exemplary. Now I can marshal evidence against those who think otherwise.

To support her assertion, she stated that I thought hard about what I want to eat and took time to make a decision. What she forgot to mention is that this decision is often between a hamburger or slice of pizza. Perhaps I conceal such choices by throwing in a side of carrots or broccoli.

After my exchange with the cafeteria lady, I began to brainstorm the numerous conclusions I could make about her compliment. Here are the most probable:

1. Ms. X has paid no attention whatsoever to what I've been ordering the past few days.

2. One of us is grossly mistaken about the definition of "healthy."

3. In an act of culinary sabotage, the FDA has completely inverted the food pyramid, rendering my eating habits healthy.

I would like to believe #3 simply because it's so scandalous, but in all likelihood, #1 is more rooted in reality.

What Is This Thing Called Palin?

I remember the first time I saw Sarah Palin's glowing face. I opened my homepage to Slate.com one morning, and there she was with that vacuous stare. It was the day McCain and company announced she would be the Republican vice-presidential nominee. Thank you, John McCain, for that. Thank you for leaving the American public in the wake of your bountiful cynicism. Long after you have departed for the next world or whatever you actually believe in, she will still be around to assault us with her neverending string of gerunds and unwelcomed winks. Even at that first moment, I was overcome with feelings of horror and foreboding, and nothing has changed.

The most incredible aspect of the Sarah Palin parade float is what has been painfully obvious since the beginning to anyone with a tinge of honesty and intelligence: her lack of knowledge and inability to speak coherently. This was apparent from her first national television interview. When she first opened her mouth, I couldn't help but picture a high schooler who had crammed the night before for a poster presentation. Clearly, somebody had filled her head with talking points to regurgitate on cue. But this tactic was an immense failure, something that people like Bill Kristol either choose to ignore or genuinely disbelieve. Both possibilities are equally shocking.

Palin is not a woman of substance. And because she cannot tell us what exactly she is for, she must define herself by what she is against, even if these things don't exist. I doubt this is a viable long-term strategy. I watched her Fox News debut on Bill O'Reilly the other night, and she followed her usual narrative: we must fight against the liberal media; the American people have had enough of these big-government policies; the simple solution that will solve all our problems is common-sense conservatism. I've always despised the phrase "common sense," and for good reason: it's usually the dim ones who declare their belief in it.

It must be comforting to believe we live in a world without shades of gray, however untruthful this worldview might be. Facts don't matter much to politicians on the left or the right or any other direction, so long as they appear to believe the lies they throw at us. But even if these lies make us feel good, it doesn't make them true.

When I go back and watch Palin discuss foreign policy with Charles Gibson, I cringe slightly and wonder if the film Idiocracy is even more prescient that I had thought. Palin is a symbol of a greater problem: our inability to think clearly and seriously about things that really matter. When I listen to Palin spew a garden variety of consonants and vowels, I tend to think it's a symptom of her inability to think coherently. I doubt there is much structure to her arguments, and so there is not much structure to her words. If she understood and knew more about the issues she talked about, her sentences wouldn't betray a self-satisfied and bottomless ignorance.

Anecdotally, and in no way scientifically, it often seems that those who trumpet the magnificence and righteousness of our species are the very ones who spoil this vision. The brilliant ones who have made our world a little more interesting are the ones who are comfortable with doubt. They are also willing to question the role of our species in the universe. This is how progress happens.

Most people encounter problems and then provide answers. Maybe they are good answers; maybe they are not. We can debate this. Palin, on the other hand, encounters answers and then provides problems. But by courting the same media she rails against and molesting us with her own brand of ignorance, she has given us a problem for which there is no simple answer, and for this we must all suffer. Thank you, John McCain, for that.