Three, Four, Shut the Door

The problem with trying to write after taking care of kids all day is that only small words tend to come out. Worse, they are all in CAPS.

Nonetheless, I shall have to get this third entry for Project 52 out, seeing as I’m already a week late, because Pratchett said that if you bail on a commitment for a good reason, soon you’d be bailing on it for a bad one. And because he’s Pratchett, he’s always right. Kinda like a god, but with less irony.

So yes, even though I have to have a thesaurus opened on my browser, and even though I may have to exercise restraint from the region of the Caps Lock button, and even though after each paragraph I type I’m taking a ten minute break to stare into space (it’s slightly livelier than my brains), I’m gonna get it out. Yosh.

If you are reading this, I am utterly sorry. This is painful for the writer, but even more so for the reader, who doesn’t even have the obligation to like it.

Anyway.

Life is like ice cream, sometimes. Live the moment, lick it while its frozen, and Happiness (or at least, it’s younger brother Contentment) makes your taste buds bloom. Leave it to its own demise, saving it for later, and the creamy heaven melts into soured puddle of ick. It perhaps does no good to you, too, if you get right down to it.

Where am I going with this? To quote the sage, “I was hoping you can tell me.”

******

Do our books reflect us, or do we reflect our books?
What a conundrum.
I wonder what Calvin and Hobbes have to say about this.

I should perhaps be reading something more substantial.

Something with more philosophical depth, perhaps. Something argumentative. Something political. Some social commentary. Something brilliant.

Thus, I chucked my “50 Philosophical Ideas You Need to Know” aside and curled up with some good ol’ Calvin and Hobbes.

It’s philosophical.

It’s argumentative.

It’s political.
It’s social commentary.


It’s brilliant.

Calvin’s mind jumps from metaphysics to madness, and stops to poke at everything in between until something explodes. Hobbes is wry, devious, and only probably stuffed with cotton. Together, they made, well, Calvin and Hobbes – possibly the most fantastic comic strip ever written in the history of Humans. That’s an understatement, by the way, but that’d have to do for now.

Granted, I’m a late Calvin and Hobbes fan. In fact, the addiction only started about several weeks ago (but already it has invaded a large part of my consciousness. I now believe that snowmen do turn into Deranged Mutant Killer Monster Snow Goon if you try to bring them to life. And that bicycles are Evil - I always knew it’s not my fault that I can never ride them properly.)

I never really got into Calvin and Hobbes when I was younger. In fact, I wondered what the hype was all about. I remember being really into Peanuts at one point, but the jokes got old and Charles Schulz got older. Eventually, I discovered Zits and read it whenever I can, and Baby Blues always got me chuckling. But none of them really registered like Calvin and Hobbes do now.

Perhaps it’s because none of them had Deranged Mutant Killer Monster Snow Goons.
The charm (again, an understatement) of Calvin and Hobbes to me is that Calvin, despite the restrictions and realities of being a six-year-old, just set out to have the best damn fun he can get away with. That, and grossing out Susie Derkins, a Girl who lives on the same street. His mind is his playground, and although he is sometimes bitter and grouchy about inconveniences of life such as school, vegetables, blockhead bullies, bedtime, and parent-teacher conferences, he still lives life on the fastest track he can put his wagon on, i.e. a steep hill straight down to the river.

And that is perhaps what being alive is all about. It doesn’t matter who you are, or how old you are, or where you are, or even what you are. You will have restrictions, you will have frustrations, and you will have reality. However, it is up to you to turn the Vegetables of Life to a murderous green blob that is trying to eat your face, because heck, it’s inevitable anyway, so you might as well have fun fighting it.



It’s about the Imagination, and the World it opens.

*****

Sometimes I think I should be doing more with my time here in the States. I feel like I should be soaking in all the American experiences that I can possibly get my hands on. I should be leaping onto roller coasters (except I hate them), riding the waves (except I can’t swim, let alone surf), jumping off planes (that’s even worse than roller coasters), and err, other exciting stuff which I would not be doing save for the feeling that I should be doing more with my time here in the States. I should be sleeping less.

The spirit may be willing, but the body is weak. And don’t get me started on the wallet.

The funny thing is, as I was watching the live cast of Barely Legal gyrating to the Rocky Horror Picture Show, it hit me. Granted, Tim curry singing “Sweet Transvestite” didn’t gain a cult following without causing some pain, but this is a different kind of “hit”.

It dawned upon me that hey, I’m actually doing okay in the States. I am in a cinema room full of people yelling things at the screen, and I just saw a dancer flashed her boobs, and in a while, when the character of Dr. Frank-N-Furter yells “Great Scott!” we were all supposed to send rolls of toilet paper sailing through the air.

It was oddly beautiful, sailing toilet papers.

Now, how many people can say that?

My point is, although sometimes I wish I can have some fantastically mind-blowing experience to take home with, I guess it counts to just be happy with what I can do.

To stop yearning, and start living.

Because Contentment deserves some credit too.

Well said, Watterson.