Reading a biography of Einstein. I’ve entered a reading phase which means an end of a writing phase which always signals for me a sort of failure. Manic writing, depressed reading. Manic music, depressed silence (or NPR).
Einstein’s time makes me think, made me think, of that book, a current book, written by a guy named Brook, I think, name/title escapes me, about today’s America and the cost of living, not just, not at all really what the term conventionally conjures, but how much one must earn to live a decent life or, perhaps, more accurately, the life that one is expected to live.
Lots of money. Lots of education to earn the money, lots of money to get the education. People enter the trap and they must pay to stay there. It’s a velvet-lined trap with cable TV and plenty to eat. You have to pay for the kids and their education is expensive. So, the job you have becomes the way you protect the future of your children, and, if that is the case then you’ll do anything regardless of how dull, disreputable or valuable to society.
There is very little I do of value to society. I write that recognizing the/my hypocrisy because personally I don’t care that much about society. I’m happiest (or is it just comfortable) when alone. That said I would like to think the money I spend on taxes is going to help people not kill them.
All this followed from the thought about Einstein. How could a mind like that be fostered, grow in America today? It would take either great wealth or incredible determination to focus a life on studying such fiscally worthless subjects as he did.
The boat is leaving. I’d rather stick my nose in a book, I feel my minutes of disappearing in someone else’s thoughts drifting away as I drift to Seattle.
Feeling compelled to write, getting off the ferry, for no good reason and perhaps just to avoid going to work where I’ve been feeling useless. I almost got up to write last night as I could not sleep. I’m bothered now by my decision to tell my sister and my friend about Lamictal, my euphemism for bipolarity. I need, too, to write a letter to my father which I realize contradicts the previous sentence.
What the hell am I doing? I guess I just have to go and fake it some more. I am in such a flustered funk I can’t describe it and don’t see how chronicling it is helping any.