Wed 11 Jun 2008
If you’ll allow an overwrought metaphor, the gap between idealism and pragmatism is often wide and littered with the broken, sun-bleached bones of righteous convictions.
What are the things that you feel like you should be doing but which you just aren’t, for whatever reasons? What’s the thing that bugs you most? What’s the thing that bugs you less than you reckon it should?
Posted by Josh Millard5 answers so far!
God, there’s so much I should do. Each year, there’s more and more. Actually, there’s probably the same amount as always, but the older I get, the harder I find it is to rationalize my behavior. I can’t hide from or justify my faults like I could when I was younger. But that doesn’t mean I overcome them, either. I guess I’m stupid. It makes sense to face your faults head on if you’re going to correct them — or at least try to correct them. If you’re not going to make the effort, what’s the point of facing them? Most of the time, I just feel guilty.
– I continue to be non-political. Most people I know think I’m awful for going through the whole Bush decade without participating. I feel guilty about it at times. Quite often, in fact. But I don’t believe in blind participation. I don’t believe in voting or marching or whatever — unless you’ve studied the issues. And I can’t bring myself to study the issues. Too painful.
Most of my political friends, even the ones in agony over the way the U.S has gone these last few years, find something fun in politics. They get into the sport of it. They like rooting for their team and hurling insults at the opposite team. That’s not to say they necessarily want things to stay so conflicted, but they are able to find some fun in the fray. I’m not. It’s no fun at all.
A couple of times, I let myself be dragged into a political argument. I went from passionless (or, rather, trying to suppress my passion) to being a maniac. It was funny in retrospect. I started by saying, “I’m not political. Please. I don’t want to talk about it…” and an hour later, I was yelling and screaming, and I couldn’t stop. I can’t seem to find a way to be moderate. I can’t be even slightly philosophical about it. I can’t have a sense of humor about it. I can only stick my head in the sand or become passionate to the point of mania. And I can’t let that sort of mania into my life.
– I continue to eat meat. I am able to go into denial about this at times, which is good, because in my heart of hearts, I think killing a cow or a pig is murder — on par with killing a human. I’m a murderer. Yet I’ve never had the willpower to give up meat. I’ve tried, but I crave it. I know this is silly, but I feel like I’m a born meat-eater. If I go too long without meat, it feels like going without sex or happiness. Still, that’s no excuse for murder.
– I continue to be less than I could be as a director and writer. Meanwhile I get more and more praise for my directing and writing. I try not to listen to it. In my heart, I know I could be better. I know I get lazy and content myself with good-enough-to-entertain-people.
– There are so many ways I could be a better husband.
I should be recycling.
I should be smoking dope. Ain’t got no Man here yet, and that sucks. Anybody know any freaks in Sofia, Bulgaria?
WORK. OUT.
Ambrosia and I are agreed. Exercise. I basically get none except for yard work, and that is once per week, generally.