There is too much news, way too much. Ten minutes into my morning I’m dowsed and drenched by the news hose. This incessant emergency is new and unpleasant. I mean to read something timeless instead of timely or – God forbid! – to ponder. Pondering requires silence, stillness, detachment. Not a chance. Headlines and their analysts bombard me with the day’s absurdities. Have you heard about this! – or this! – or this!
News is always plentiful in our wired instant world where everyone carries a recording device in their pocket. A plethora of voices cram my inbox – and they’d all be worth listening to – if I had time. But time is what I don’t have, even in calmer moments. And now the Nameless One and his lap-DOGEs and dopes keep me hopping with their lies, screwups, scurrilities, reversals, denials and assaults on my serenity. “Flooding the zone” is how sweetie pies like Steve Bannon gleefully characterize this ebullition. Get the citizens so confused they won’t know which end is up or miss America when it’s gone. Hah-hah-hah.
I hate our moment. It hurts my health, mental and physical. It has me blathering about this topic instead of others more nutritious. But we can only live when we were born – and where – no use fussing about what can’t be fixed, we must learn to cope. The Weltanschauung, more than any maker, composes the music of its moment. We can only sing the songs we imbibe from the ambient air.
How do I compose myself sufficiently to compose? Ranting and railing aren’t readable. No one wants to converse with a tantrum.
Language is my harness (sometimes straitjacket). I strap myself into a paragraph and start hauling. No point speaking except to say something. What then? What sense might I derive from my chaotic feelings? What word might I utter worth your hearing? Might I in this doleful hour help us both to a smile?
I right myself by writing myself – that goofy phrase has long been my go-to anodyne and sedative. Words, to be heard, must make sense. A sentence insists on direction, it can’t zigzag frantically like a bat trapped indoors.
Language holds me tight, as one might an hysterical child till its sobs subside. Words are optimists. No matter what a word says, it presumes the value of saying, sharing, being together. All art, even the bleakest, is affirmative. I may feel rotten sitting to write – I did this morning – but little by little my words tug, tickle, humor me, yank me from my grump into self-ridicule, chuckles. What an ass I am to carry on so! The words may start to dance, diverting my attention with their twists and somersaults. One word really does lead to the next – inevitably – so my pen follows. Making makes me feel worthwhile if I’ve made well. Suddenly I am smiling despite everything. Wow, how did that happen!
I urge everybody to write – for therapy. It can’t hurt, might help, and is insanely inexpensive compared to shrinks, health clubs, foreign travel, shopping, Netflix, etc. It also keeps its practitioners out of mischief. When scribbling, I’m not moping, spending, eating, or watching golf. I’m thinking, which is invigorating and forestalls dementia supposedly. Stands to reason. Exercise strengthens – minds no less than bodies.
Though I urge writing, I discourage publishing until you’ve developed a knack. The Internet has made multitudes gasbags, the way bumper cars make any bozo a driver. True, one could say the same of me – some may – but not you. By reading this far you’ve licensed me to continue my yammering tomorrow. Bless you.