I had a horrible experience the other day. The children left me in the drive way and I got rolled over by the family SUV. Thoroughly crushed but still in one piece my caretakers were able to separate me at the seams, push me back into shape and super glue me back together. I feel pretty good now. Other than slightly blurred vision and vague sense of stickiness I’m as good as new (well, you know, relatively speaking).

Anyway, the experience has me thinking about end of life issues. Things like writing a living will, who will get my doll house and maybe, most importantly who will be in charge of my ultimate demise. Will I be put on life-support, assigned to hospice care, be kept alive at all costs until the last breath leaves my body or will I be given the privilege of deciding when and by what means my end will come.

It seems to me I should be allowed the right to die with dignity, cognizant, conscious, able to wish my loved ones the best rather than leaving them to watch me slowly fade away over hours, or days or weeks.  I guess the problem comes down to the belief of some in the sacredness of life. Suicide, considered escape (unless one is waging jihad), is sinful in the eyes of the faithful and somehow this concept has become entrenched in the law of the land. The old disconnect between basic human concerns and the perceived desires of the supernatural rears it’s ugly head once again.

I’m not letting any of this get in my way. When my time nears I’ll be ready, my ticket to the plastic works purchased in advance, the vat of molten plastic awaiting my perfect swan dive into the great oneness.

As I continue to view the pictures in the old family albums, I contemplate the confidence the figures seem to exude. I wonder about the philosophical basis upon which these people operated. I have a feeling at least some of the optimism their appearance seems to imply is the result of the economic boom brought on by all that war production. Capitalism’s finest hour provided the likelihood of material gains for all. The idea of ‘getting ahead’ must have seemed pretty realistic.

These folks were members of the ‘greatest generation’: the post-World War II nation that probably saw itself as saving the world from unspeakable evil. There must have been a sense that God was on their side, a belief carried right through to the present day to justify a tendency to micro-manage world order (something, it’s becoming pretty clear we’re not very good at).

Which is not to say these aren’t inherently good people ready and willing to do for others in need and wishing ill on no one (although one must surmise a certain racist undercurrent existed evidenced by the segregation in the armed forces not to mention the blind eye turned toward the impending holocaust).

I guess it’s pretty easy to look critically at these people in retrospect and if I turn the same critical eye to me and my fellows I suppose much could be found to be wanting. And, I guess all we can hope for in the future is to learn from the past which, when I think about it is probably pretty unlikely.

I’ve been getting caught up in winning and losing lately. The politics in the playroom is getting pretty cut-throat and the pressure to take sides, whether regarding sports activities, political discussions, philosophical positions, religious notions, you name it, is increasingly intense. It almost seems as if winning or losing is more the issue than thoughtful reasoning about issues. Winning, it seems, becomes synonymous for many with success.

I read an article recently that suggested one was less likely to succeed if she was overly optimistic. I guess the idea is too much optimism inhibits the drive to compete; to strive for the head of the line, for the promotion or the big raise. The optimist, the writer suggests, assumes good things are in store regardless of how hard she works for them.

It seems to me the whole idea of winning presupposes a common desire which will be satisfied by material reward resulting in an enhanced sense of well-being. This ‘success’ will never be more than temporary which means additional winning will be required to not simply sustain it but to avoid the debilitating depression of ‘failure’, the result being a vicious cycle of competing egos egged on by media hype and recognition. Then, one day I awake to the realization someone else is determining my values for me; my well-being is no longer in my own hands and has become embedded in the competitive, material realm.

Well, I’m not having any of it. I really don’t care how popular success is measured. I’m staying positive and optimistic. I’ll look past the material realm and embrace the purity of beauty and truth. I understand this may require some disassociation.

Life in the playroom can be pretty predictable. It’s a rare day our mundane existence doesn’t rule. Ordinary is almost always the order of the day.  And, although I’m not in the least bored, having as I do a number of creative activities I enjoy and engage in daily, I sometimes wonder whether or not the uninterrupted routine deadens my imagination; if in fact the progress and results of my daily engagements are less than they might be.

So, it occurs to me that perhaps I need to liven up the day, break the routine. This idea is not a comfortable one for me because I do quite enjoy the consistent pace of life and any disruption would be a discomfort causing, at least, some level of anxiety. And, the greater the disruption the greater the discomfort would be, I have no doubt. But, in the interests of potentially achieving superior experiences in my creative endeavors I feel I should began to impose certain discomforts on myself at least occasionally.

I could impose some sort of physical discomfort on myself like running around naked out in the cold until my plastic becomes brittle, but I think the psychological realm is where I should take aim. Perhaps I could volunteer to sing a solo with the church choir. I don’t belong to a church choir or go to church for that matter and can’t really sing which means, if I were to score such a gig, an extremely unpleasant experience would probably await me.

Or, I could make myself available for extended conversation with the Mormon boys. They come around pretty regularly and are always more than willing to tell me about Jesus’ time in North America and the revelations of Joseph Smith who definitely had some good ones.  This possibility has discomfort written all over it.

I’ll have to think about this for a while. It’s going to be a matter of balancing the degree of discomfort and the potential for imaginative invention with the serenity of routine existence and maybe less than wonderful creative results. It’s all about peace of mind I suppose.