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Summer 2023
General News
I don’t want to sound like I am opposed to self improvement. I think that there are definitely times when someone can decide to apply time and intentionality towards a problem and come out on the other side with a markedly better life. That said, I would argue that nine times out of ten, the person has to make that decision for themselves.
What you don’t want to do--entirely hypothetically--is call your mother and say, “Hey, I’m gonna send you a book about Swedish death cleaning. Let me know when you get it.” Because if you do that, then I am probably going to respond, “Well I’m not Swedish or dying, so maybe you should save yourself some postage, Patti.” And even if you defend yourself by saying, “No, I’m not saying that you are dying--it’s just about making your house ready for children to go through after you die,” you will still hurt my feelings.
When I die, someone is going to have to clean up my mess. And they are just gonna have to deal with it.
I have lost enough people to compile a pop-up shop’s worth of bric-a-brac from different homes and apartments and storage spaces. All of these items bring back memories of people and times that I treasure. And never--when I have been helping put pants in boxes or collecting old Huskers hats--never have I thought, “How rude!?” Never have I thought, “Jeez, if only my dad had spent the last twenty years constantly preparing for his death, then I could have this weekend free!”
And I know what some of you are thinking! You’re thinking that I’m missing the point. You’re thinking that this is about making sure that I am not collecting items I will never use that will simply take up space in some basement for thirty years until I die and they become someone else’s problem.
But I don’t do that!
Even though I’ve collected all of these things from friends and family over the years, they aren’t cluttering up my apartment. Half of them aren’t even in my apartment. Here at the East Nebraska Secret Commune, we are great at sharing. How silly would we look if we all had our own lawnmower?
I understand that this is not always a shared value. When I looked up “Things to share with my neighbors” online, the top three articles were about 1) the importance of small talk, 2) a history of the 4th of July, and 3) a husband’s sex addiction. My computer is not interested in people who share their air mattress when their neighbors have friends visiting. But I’m borrowing and lending all the time. I love it! And frankly, Polonius can huff my fucking shorts if he has a problem with that.
By sharing with everyone around me, I have access to more stuff, more food, more variety, more opportunities than I would ever have on my own. How much better to spend a month with your friend’s knitting needles and realize that it is a hobby you are never going to enjoy than to buy all your own kit just to abandon it in some box under your bed?
***
I’m not exactly sure what to write next, here. I took a little walk and the best idea I have is to give a few recent examples.
Meditation Book: I love the library, but not every book is a great fit. I can hike my way through a mystery novel in a week, but I know that it is going to take about three months to get through The Month of Meditation: 30 Days to Create a Practice that Sticks. With a month to procrastinate, two aborted attempts, and then finally thirty whole days to create a practice that sticks, I knew that I needed more time with the book than was really fair to ask of my local library. But, it seemed very fair to ask of my friend Laura.
Laura already meditates every day (so clearly the practice can stick) and has moved on to the second and third tier of meditation books. My understanding is that the first tier of meditation books are: “Save $80 by buying this book instead of a class.” The second seems to be vanity projects from all of your favorite meditation big boys. And then the third tier is reading about how fucked up other people’s lives used to be before they meditated. I don’t expect to ever get to tier three. I’m already really behind on my books about how fucked up people’s lives used to be before they joined bands I like.
This week, I got started on my second aborted attempt. I’m planning to give up again in the middle of next week. This try, I got far enough in the book to take a guided meditation. One of the great things about borrowing a book that your friend bought in 2005 is that it might still have a CD in a sleeve attached to the back cover. And if you listen to that CD, you might be lucky enough to hear an actor very calmly repeat a bunch of stuff that you already read in the book. Then, the stock sound of a bell will ring to let you know that you should get up and hit pause before it immediately starts the guided walking meditation on the next track. (I don’t know if the publishers in 2005 were assuming that everyone already had a portable disc player--admittedly, I definitely did--or whether I am supposed to listen to the track and then go walking. I haven’t gotten that far in the book yet.)
I know that I’m kinda talking a lot of shit here, but I’m really enjoying the book. Two months from now, I’m confident that I am going to have a great new part of my morning routine.
Stock pot: This week, George made stock for the first time in his life. I don’t know why--sometimes loving doesn’t require understanding--but about four months ago George became obsessed with making stock. He was reading articles about it and kept asking my opinion on whether he should make vegetable stock or chicken stock or maybe start with a broth to dip his toe in the water. I didn’t really care about any of it, but sometimes loving doesn’t require caring, either. Ultimately, we decided to start gathering scraps and then we would deal with making stock once we had filled the little bucket he put in the back of the freezer. Well, four months later that bucket was full. And thankfully, Anthony let us borrow his stock pot.
I’m including the stock pot for two reasons. One is that, even if George keeps making stock, I don’t think that we are going to need this thing more than three times a year. And this is a pretty big thing to keep in our kitchen for three annual simmers.
The other reason that I am including the stock pot is because if you don’t share your failures, no one will believe your successes.
Last year, I borrowed a different stock pot from Anthony. I had read something about dyeing clothes in wine and thought the stock pot would be a good idea. And, in theory, it was a good idea. I gathered up a bunch of my white kitchen cloths (an apron; stained tea towels; a pair of white sneakers with no real kitchen connection, actually) and set the whole thing up in a corner of the yard. Then--this is where the “theory” starts to break down--I completely forgot about it. A week later, George asked how much longer the clothes needed to soak; which was his very kind way of asking how much longer the fucking pot needed to sit out in the fucking yard. The answer, unfortunately, was negative six days.
Everything was ruined.
Genuinely, it was so bad that I couldn’t even understand what must have happened.
But, I bought Steven a new pot. And then this week, Steven let me borrow that pot.
Exercise bands: This Wednesday, Ezra tried to return the resistance bands I gave to him and Georgia after they started talking about training for RAGBRAI last winter. Apparently after five months of looking at them in a loose pile on the floor in front of their craft cabinet, it took the real world beginning of RAGBRAI for Georgia and Ezra to accept that they were not going “bicycle ride across Iowa” this year and bring back my fluorescent exercise pals. But, I had already promised the bands to Brittany last month when her kids started talking about making a giant slingshot in the forest. Ezra agreed to take the bands over to Brittany, but left a little pumpkin loaf Georgia made that morning as a thank you.
The kids are probably gonna ruin those bands, but I don’t mind. I know that I will never use them. I got them at a garage sale after reading an article about exercises that are good for your bones or some similar seemingly impossible promise. But it turns out that I don’t ever actually feel my bones, so I can’t be fucked to care. Sometimes I will feel the effect of lowered bone density, but by that point it is too late. So I still don’t care. What I am saying is that I would much rather these kids destroy them than have them sit in a corner of my closet for twenty years until they wither into dust. I’ve been to those houses that still have the balls in the garage from the sports they don’t play anymore and I’d really just like to get that stuff out and into someone else’s hands. And then, ideally, guilt that person into lending me something I do want.
Also, there is terrible power in just destroying something. I’d love to give that to those kids. They can’t buy magazines to burn or cakes to sit on like an adult. They have to take their destruction opportunities where they can get it.
***
When I talk about this to people outside of Eastie, more often than not the person seems concerned that they would get ripped off. They want to know what happens when one person borrows too much. Or they want to know what we do when someone won’t give up their good stuff. When people ask me this, it makes me wonder whether they are that rude, or if it is just all of their friends. Sometimes--when they are trying to be a little more political, a little more analytical--they ask about how we keep track of how much everyone contributes.
Of course we don’t keep track of it! And it’s not just because we have faith in each other, which we do. More than anything, it seems like a real drag. Do you know how much time and energy that would take?
I don’t want to take a big dump on capitalists. I know that that is such a cliche. But, these boys are such dorks! With their fucking calculators and spreadsheets and their money that always goes to the second decimal place. I don’t care what that money can buy. I know a loser when I see one.
The other reason we don’t keep track is because it doesn’t make sense. If you need to borrow a camera, you don’t want to have to wait until your neighbor needs to borrow some folding chairs. And if your neighbor knows that those folding chairs are coming to them when they need them, there is no reason you should have to wait. Grab that camera! Take those pictures in the bath. Get your butt out, baby! Let it shine. (This last borrowing example was more relevant last century. But, in my defense, that was my butt-pictures heyday.)
Sadly, I think that some people are so afraid of a hypothetical person taking advantage of them that they will give up real opportunities in their real life. Somehow, emotionally, the former feels “realer” than the latter. But the relay team always beats the long distance runner. Sometimes, the smartest thing you can do is link arms with the people around you. So why be dumb when you can be smart and have friends?
I know that I have gotten on my soap box a little bit here, but I am just so fucking mad at my daughter. I’m not at 100% today.
Well, I guess I’ll wrap it up here. I’m pretty sleepy. See you in a few months.
What you don’t want to do--entirely hypothetically--is call your mother and say, “Hey, I’m gonna send you a book about Swedish death cleaning. Let me know when you get it.” Because if you do that, then I am probably going to respond, “Well I’m not Swedish or dying, so maybe you should save yourself some postage, Patti.” And even if you defend yourself by saying, “No, I’m not saying that you are dying--it’s just about making your house ready for children to go through after you die,” you will still hurt my feelings.
When I die, someone is going to have to clean up my mess. And they are just gonna have to deal with it.
I have lost enough people to compile a pop-up shop’s worth of bric-a-brac from different homes and apartments and storage spaces. All of these items bring back memories of people and times that I treasure. And never--when I have been helping put pants in boxes or collecting old Huskers hats--never have I thought, “How rude!?” Never have I thought, “Jeez, if only my dad had spent the last twenty years constantly preparing for his death, then I could have this weekend free!”
And I know what some of you are thinking! You’re thinking that I’m missing the point. You’re thinking that this is about making sure that I am not collecting items I will never use that will simply take up space in some basement for thirty years until I die and they become someone else’s problem.
But I don’t do that!
Even though I’ve collected all of these things from friends and family over the years, they aren’t cluttering up my apartment. Half of them aren’t even in my apartment. Here at the East Nebraska Secret Commune, we are great at sharing. How silly would we look if we all had our own lawnmower?
I understand that this is not always a shared value. When I looked up “Things to share with my neighbors” online, the top three articles were about 1) the importance of small talk, 2) a history of the 4th of July, and 3) a husband’s sex addiction. My computer is not interested in people who share their air mattress when their neighbors have friends visiting. But I’m borrowing and lending all the time. I love it! And frankly, Polonius can huff my fucking shorts if he has a problem with that.
By sharing with everyone around me, I have access to more stuff, more food, more variety, more opportunities than I would ever have on my own. How much better to spend a month with your friend’s knitting needles and realize that it is a hobby you are never going to enjoy than to buy all your own kit just to abandon it in some box under your bed?
***
I’m not exactly sure what to write next, here. I took a little walk and the best idea I have is to give a few recent examples.
Meditation Book: I love the library, but not every book is a great fit. I can hike my way through a mystery novel in a week, but I know that it is going to take about three months to get through The Month of Meditation: 30 Days to Create a Practice that Sticks. With a month to procrastinate, two aborted attempts, and then finally thirty whole days to create a practice that sticks, I knew that I needed more time with the book than was really fair to ask of my local library. But, it seemed very fair to ask of my friend Laura.
Laura already meditates every day (so clearly the practice can stick) and has moved on to the second and third tier of meditation books. My understanding is that the first tier of meditation books are: “Save $80 by buying this book instead of a class.” The second seems to be vanity projects from all of your favorite meditation big boys. And then the third tier is reading about how fucked up other people’s lives used to be before they meditated. I don’t expect to ever get to tier three. I’m already really behind on my books about how fucked up people’s lives used to be before they joined bands I like.
This week, I got started on my second aborted attempt. I’m planning to give up again in the middle of next week. This try, I got far enough in the book to take a guided meditation. One of the great things about borrowing a book that your friend bought in 2005 is that it might still have a CD in a sleeve attached to the back cover. And if you listen to that CD, you might be lucky enough to hear an actor very calmly repeat a bunch of stuff that you already read in the book. Then, the stock sound of a bell will ring to let you know that you should get up and hit pause before it immediately starts the guided walking meditation on the next track. (I don’t know if the publishers in 2005 were assuming that everyone already had a portable disc player--admittedly, I definitely did--or whether I am supposed to listen to the track and then go walking. I haven’t gotten that far in the book yet.)
I know that I’m kinda talking a lot of shit here, but I’m really enjoying the book. Two months from now, I’m confident that I am going to have a great new part of my morning routine.
Stock pot: This week, George made stock for the first time in his life. I don’t know why--sometimes loving doesn’t require understanding--but about four months ago George became obsessed with making stock. He was reading articles about it and kept asking my opinion on whether he should make vegetable stock or chicken stock or maybe start with a broth to dip his toe in the water. I didn’t really care about any of it, but sometimes loving doesn’t require caring, either. Ultimately, we decided to start gathering scraps and then we would deal with making stock once we had filled the little bucket he put in the back of the freezer. Well, four months later that bucket was full. And thankfully, Anthony let us borrow his stock pot.
I’m including the stock pot for two reasons. One is that, even if George keeps making stock, I don’t think that we are going to need this thing more than three times a year. And this is a pretty big thing to keep in our kitchen for three annual simmers.
The other reason that I am including the stock pot is because if you don’t share your failures, no one will believe your successes.
Last year, I borrowed a different stock pot from Anthony. I had read something about dyeing clothes in wine and thought the stock pot would be a good idea. And, in theory, it was a good idea. I gathered up a bunch of my white kitchen cloths (an apron; stained tea towels; a pair of white sneakers with no real kitchen connection, actually) and set the whole thing up in a corner of the yard. Then--this is where the “theory” starts to break down--I completely forgot about it. A week later, George asked how much longer the clothes needed to soak; which was his very kind way of asking how much longer the fucking pot needed to sit out in the fucking yard. The answer, unfortunately, was negative six days.
Everything was ruined.
Genuinely, it was so bad that I couldn’t even understand what must have happened.
But, I bought Steven a new pot. And then this week, Steven let me borrow that pot.
Exercise bands: This Wednesday, Ezra tried to return the resistance bands I gave to him and Georgia after they started talking about training for RAGBRAI last winter. Apparently after five months of looking at them in a loose pile on the floor in front of their craft cabinet, it took the real world beginning of RAGBRAI for Georgia and Ezra to accept that they were not going “bicycle ride across Iowa” this year and bring back my fluorescent exercise pals. But, I had already promised the bands to Brittany last month when her kids started talking about making a giant slingshot in the forest. Ezra agreed to take the bands over to Brittany, but left a little pumpkin loaf Georgia made that morning as a thank you.
The kids are probably gonna ruin those bands, but I don’t mind. I know that I will never use them. I got them at a garage sale after reading an article about exercises that are good for your bones or some similar seemingly impossible promise. But it turns out that I don’t ever actually feel my bones, so I can’t be fucked to care. Sometimes I will feel the effect of lowered bone density, but by that point it is too late. So I still don’t care. What I am saying is that I would much rather these kids destroy them than have them sit in a corner of my closet for twenty years until they wither into dust. I’ve been to those houses that still have the balls in the garage from the sports they don’t play anymore and I’d really just like to get that stuff out and into someone else’s hands. And then, ideally, guilt that person into lending me something I do want.
Also, there is terrible power in just destroying something. I’d love to give that to those kids. They can’t buy magazines to burn or cakes to sit on like an adult. They have to take their destruction opportunities where they can get it.
***
When I talk about this to people outside of Eastie, more often than not the person seems concerned that they would get ripped off. They want to know what happens when one person borrows too much. Or they want to know what we do when someone won’t give up their good stuff. When people ask me this, it makes me wonder whether they are that rude, or if it is just all of their friends. Sometimes--when they are trying to be a little more political, a little more analytical--they ask about how we keep track of how much everyone contributes.
Of course we don’t keep track of it! And it’s not just because we have faith in each other, which we do. More than anything, it seems like a real drag. Do you know how much time and energy that would take?
I don’t want to take a big dump on capitalists. I know that that is such a cliche. But, these boys are such dorks! With their fucking calculators and spreadsheets and their money that always goes to the second decimal place. I don’t care what that money can buy. I know a loser when I see one.
The other reason we don’t keep track is because it doesn’t make sense. If you need to borrow a camera, you don’t want to have to wait until your neighbor needs to borrow some folding chairs. And if your neighbor knows that those folding chairs are coming to them when they need them, there is no reason you should have to wait. Grab that camera! Take those pictures in the bath. Get your butt out, baby! Let it shine. (This last borrowing example was more relevant last century. But, in my defense, that was my butt-pictures heyday.)
Sadly, I think that some people are so afraid of a hypothetical person taking advantage of them that they will give up real opportunities in their real life. Somehow, emotionally, the former feels “realer” than the latter. But the relay team always beats the long distance runner. Sometimes, the smartest thing you can do is link arms with the people around you. So why be dumb when you can be smart and have friends?
I know that I have gotten on my soap box a little bit here, but I am just so fucking mad at my daughter. I’m not at 100% today.
Well, I guess I’ll wrap it up here. I’m pretty sleepy. See you in a few months.
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