On Laziness, Love, and Their Mutual Exclusion

Recently it occurred to me (he says as if he thought he was the first to think of this... he knows he is not) that we all live life according to our own unique narratives; personal fairy tales only we can hear. Stories to get us through the day. It's all just a matter of which fairy tales we chose to believe. God? Money? Fame? Whatever gives us a semblance of purpose in this far too often bleak world.

Me, I watched too many romantic comedies growing up. My brain is constantly occupied in the writing of an epic fairy tale of love, one that ends when I get my Princess Bride; or Winnie Cooper; or Meg Ryan (not so much a current fantasy, but still); or Annie Hall; or girl from Ferris Bueller's Day Off; or Maria (from West Side Story, only, you know, without the gang war and getting stabbed part); or etc... And on and on. You can have your God, and your fame, and your fortune, I'll take love. In my mind, love is the only fairy tale that even has an outside chance at ever coming true. Love gives me purpose.

Now, how, exactly, I am ever going to find and slay the mythical love beast of my fairy tale is another matter altogether. Up to this point, I am forced to admit I have been far too prone to follow that good old path of least resistance right where it inevitably leads - the land of loneliness and masturbation. Path of least resistance, hell, let's just call it what it is: Laziness. For, as much as I want love and dream about the fairy tale ending, I have been consistently lazy about trying to find it. Laziness does not breed love, my soul mate will not fall in my lap while I am not looking. I can attest. Further, even if I did get a magical lap dance of true love, I'd still need to work hard to nourish that love and keep it around. No, laziness and love simply do not mix. In fact, it is such a fragile, fleeting phenomenon, that even with the most dedicated care and devotion it sometimes withers and dies. Can you imagine if you are totally lazy about it? Loneliness and masturbation.

Morty, age 48 hrs.

So, what am I doing about it? Well, I am going to put the cart before the horse, that's what. I am writing the sequel to the story before the original is complete (or even begun, really). I have skipped the pesky falling in love part and gone straight to procreation. That's right everyone, I have an announcement to make. I've had a baby! It's a boy! He's 288 grams, brown, bubbly, and kept at room temperature. He rises and falls daily and smells like moldy cheese farts. A real chip off the ol' block! He is a wild-yeast sourdough bread starter and I love him very much. His name is Morty, and I know some day he will make some lucky loaf of bread very happy. Look at him, isn't he so cute and crusty! He's only two days old in this picture, but already you can tell he's going be a strong young lad (and a cranky old retired Jew).

Morty, age 96 hrs.

Here is another picture of young Morty at four days old... atta boy! Looking very gaseous! Anyway, the inspiration to make my own starter was born from this video, which begat the purchase (thanks, Dad) of this book: Tartine Bread - which was written by the dude in the video, who owns this restaurant in San Francisco. If you are anything like me, you will watch the video and fall in love with bread all over again. You will want nothing more than to sit on a city curb, tear off a hunk of fresh bread, inhale the deep, old-world aromas, and savor. Tartine's bread is famous in the foodie world as the best example in America of true rustic-French style, slow-rise crustiness. This weekend I will have my first baking cycle, in which a chunk of Morty gets incorporated first into a "leaven" mix, which is then incorporated into the larger bread dough and set out to rest and rise, alternately, nearly all day. Finally, at about 4pm, it will be time to bake, and by 5pm it will be time to find a street curb and stuff my face.

The Tartine method is not for the lazy home baker, it is a commitment (Oy!). I can't be lazy with him or he will die. I have to feed him, change him, and talk to him daily. OK, maybe I don't have to talk to him, but he appreciates the extra encouragement. Taking care of this thing is work... but all love is work, isn't it. The only kind of work I really have any honest ambition to do, in fact. If I can keep little Morty alive, maybe there is hope for me. Maybe I'll not be forever too lazy to find love in the form of an actual, living, human woman. I hope so. I hope Morty is the harbinger of a real change in my work ethic. A change that will bring me closer to my fairy tale ending. In the meantime, I have the love of a bread starter named after an old man. And that ain't bad.

Finally, let me take a moment to be serious. While I celebrated a birth, others were mourning a death. Recently, a young teacher I had subbed for many times slipped into a coma and died for no apparent reason. She was only 43, had three daughters, and was, by all accounts, a person who made the world a better place. I didn't know her, but we had emailed. I have emails from a dead woman on my computer screen right now... Jesus. Seize the fucking day, people. Seize the fucking day.

Joke's On Me

Well, where was I? Hmmm.... last year at this time I was driving through the wilds of Idaho or Montana or some such place on a 29 hour round-robin marathon drive to Devil's Lake, ND with Danie and Jesse for Thanksgiving. This year, I am finishing up a two week stint (stretch? sentence for some unknown offense?) as a substitute teacher in high school. This was a gig that could have led to a full-time position. Once again I flirted with stability, looked it square in the face, tried it on for size. I passed. Stability at this school at this time would have been a cruel mistress, I think. In any case, it just weren't right. Or maybe I'm not right. Either way, end result is I don't have to go back there and that makes me happy. For now.

On the other hand, I think maybe everything I say or write on this blog is just misdirection by way of circuitous logic and semi-fancy words to cover for the fundamental path-of-least-resistance-ness of my actions. Sometimes I think all my decisions in life come down essentially on the side of simply taking the path of least resistance (henceforth referred to by the acronym I think I have just invented: POLR, pronounced "polar"). This pattern to my decision making could very well be real and might very well speak to some character defect. 

Me, looking existential after a teaching gig...
although, I took a picture so
I couldn't have been too deep in thought.

But why does POLR have such negative connotations? Is it really such a bad thing to "take the easy way out"? Eesh, that phrase makes it sound even worse. What about just not intentionally making things harder than they already are? That sounds alright for an ethos doesn't it? Mix that with a dash of good old-fashioned laziness and I think you've got me. Of course, I don't mean to say that I don't challenge myself sometimes... but maybe there are times when I should challenge myself and don't. Times when I should take the mythopoetically noble "road less traveled," but instead take the nice newly paved 4-lane highway right to the nearest fast-food restaurant. I dunno... But analyzing this anymore would make my brain hurt and I have less strenuous paths to find and take at the moment.

Anyway, the substitute teaching is going well, and, even better, being successful at it does not require me to stray far from the POLR. It may not be the easiest job, but it certainly doesn't require all the responsibilities of a regular teacher. Responsibilities like planning and grading and talking to parents. As soon as the going gets tough, the day is over and I don't have to ever go back to that classroom again, if I don't want to. The POLR is blissfully not paved with excess responsibilities.

These guys are not upstream-swimming salmon.
They took the POLR, wound up in a bucket. Of course,
the story doesn't end too well for the salmon, either.

Other things I've learned from substituting: High school still sucks as much as it always did, even without any added and burdensome "adult" responsibilities. Elementary school has more positive vibes but requires an energy level I either never had or can't maintain now. And middle school... ahh, middle school. I still can't decide if it's the worst place on earth or a great, vibrant, worthy challenge I need to rise to. For some mysterious reason, middle school might actually tempt me away from the POLR. Some kids are really cool, some are really the devil's spawn, all are a little of both at some point during the day. The thing that weirds me out the most, though, is that I still have the feeling I used to have when I was a kid in middle school... I get the feeling the little bastards know something I don't! Like I am not in on the joke. OK if you don't want to learn today, but at least let me in on the joke you little fuckers!

I've been trying to get in on the joke my whole life. I like that metaphor better than the POLR... this way, at least, it seems like I'm questing for something, not just following the easiest road. Questing is good, no negative connotations there. Yes, I believe I am questing. Incidentally, my favorite letter to write has always been "Q"... this is all falling into place!

*No fish were harmed... actually, yes, yes they were harmed. Caught by my dad's net and killed for bait, in fact. The circle of life. I am grateful for all of it! Happy Thanksgiving everyone!!