I hope to post more regularly, that the release of my thoughts in writing might be more like the cleansing flow of my other, less discussable processes. That was dramatic. Sorry.
But the nature of this post is dramatic because my realizations are pretty stark. For example:
I realized it’s no small irony that you can’t tell whether it’s sunny outside from the window of my office building. It is a tactic disguised as an energy saving measure. We’re being green by tinting the windows, but it’s a beneficial byproduct that your psyche’s longing to be outside dwindles with every glance at an unappealing, grayish sky. This will help us increase your productivity by decreasing daydreaming and other natural longings induced by sunshine and fresh air. No small irony, indeed. Florescent lighting is a whole ‘nother story.
So some days I go to a nearby body of water, a corporate interpretation of nature, that in some way hopes to capture the serenity that can be found in actual nature except less gross. It disgusts me that this is idealized, kind of like the perfectly manicured bikini area of a porn star versus the rampant, untamed beauty of an unplucked Italian eyebrow. But I go to this place and read whatever I had in my car (sometimes it’s Spanish evangelistic literature aka a track, or a book on baby sleep) and try to pretend I’m actually outside. But I am not outside, really. I am in the Matrix, still. There’s a Chik-fil-A and a beautiful Harris Teeter that sells perfect apples with clothing stores next door asking me how I’m complete without this new piece of whatever, to which I answer Gee, am I complete? Please allow me to think about this. But it is all the Matrix. You are never really outside even though you think you are. You aren’t really next to a lake. You aren’t really looking at grass. It’s a toupe’ next to some concrete next to a great big fountain. It is better than real outdoors because, magically, there are no insects. You can look at other women who shop at Old Navy and desire their Bermuda shorts and party cardis. All that desiring makes you glad you have a job so you can go and purchase a party cardi, even though you have no party to which you may wear it. Then your lunch break is over and you’re back to being inside sitting next to people in neighboring cubicles who shower every day and shave their legs too much and want to work really hard to afford more party cardis, and you are obsessed with the iPhone you don’t have so how now may I acquire one of those, along with more cardigans for parties? you ask yourself. Well, you work more hours. Thus the Matrix has won. And it is brilliant victory over the human mind. No new discovery on my part, just waking up to the truth, I might add.
Of course we must have jobs to live, and even though I want to want to be a farmer, it’s just flatly ridiculous do that when there are illegal immigrants to pick my strawberries for me. Right, government? And not everyone is a party to the materialism that comes from working. There are people who wear Toms and even take them off for a day to be aware of shoeless people in other countries, to which they have contributed very little in the mere fact that they have not worn shoes for a day. But at least other people will ask them why they’re barefoot and be subversively peer-pressured into buying a pair of conscientious shoes produced by a conscientious company with brilliant marketing schemes. Such people are immune to blatant tactics of materialism.
But I am not joining the Matrix. I am going to drink green tea that comes in recyclable packaging and water from a renewable resource canister and wear make up that swears to transfer the earth’s beauty onto my face. And someday, when I am up to my eyeballs in yoga mats and hybrid vehicles, I will point my finger at everyone who bought those party cardis and laugh.
But there will still be three fingers pointing back at me representing how much worse off I am than all of them for being the most deceived.
‘Cause in the end, the Matrix still wins.
