Existential Depression

A while back, I borrowed some lectures on Existentialism by Robert Solomon, whose style of rhetoric and frankly fair analysis of the philosophies surrounding existentialism and religious thought impressed and captivated me. I was glued to those lectures as I listened to them in my car during my daily commute. Yup, I'm a nerd. This should not be news to most people reading my blog.

Well, I had a curious moment today in which I decided to read a bit about existentialism, and I ran across a very interesting article entitled Existential depression in gifted individuals.

Now, I'm not going to be so presumptuous as to call myself "gifted", but I had to chuckle to myself as I thought, "Yup, been there. Done that. I'm that kid, at least to some degree." Granted, I'm not so sure I went through all of the questions outlined in this brief article while I was ten or twelve. I certainly did notice my peers seemed less interested in certain questions than I did. But I think matters of faith may have played a significant role in delaying the onset of some of the weightier existential questions I was sure to face head-on someday.

Those questions have, at times, hit me like a hammer to the head. Fun stuff. I can only imagine having those questions and conundrums as a young, hormonal, awkward, mood-swinging teenager who isn't even a fully-formed human being. Yikes. *grin* It's a good thing the author includes some pointers for people to help youngsters with such questions. But if most of those teenagers are anything like I was, nobody will really know they're even having those questions because they're pretty internal and, since most people don't seem to share an interest in such explorations, there seems to be little purpose in sharing them. It would take pretty perceptive parents.

I wonder if this would help explain my relatively recent focus on quality relationships as one of the few things in life that are obviously worth developing and holding onto? Repairing that sense of isolation and creating meaning by connecting with others in lasting ways? You know, just in case the less tangible or verifiable matters of faith prove to be less worthy of trust than they once promised to be...an existential insurance policy, if you will.

Have I lost most of you yet? Ha, maybe I should just wrap up and go eat something now. Back to the concrete things of life, like fast food.

Utah Billboards Say It All

Utah has a very quirky culture. Had you heard? Case in point: pay attention to the billboards you pass driving along I-15 any day. I only have images of the first two examples, but here are some honorable mentions from my favorite billboards:


Exhibit #1: Ads for people who have left a religion

Honestly, where else in the world will you find billboards informing people there are others like them who have somehow escaped the clutches of the mind-controlling _____(fill in the blank with your choice of evil religions)?


Exhibit #2: Escape Polygamy

Again, where else?


Exhibit #3: Divorce law ads next to Engagement Ring ads

In a two-mile stretch, you're likely to see ads for lawyers, some of which are telling you not to get the short end of the stick in a divorce settlement, intermingled with wedding gown and engagement ring ads saying things like "size matters". Why do I feel like I'm getting mixed signals?


Exhibit #4: Beer ads using the phrase "Oh my heck"

Remember the Saint Provo Girl beer ad controversy? Priceless. I guess there's a more recent one poking fun at polygamy. Boy, polygamy jokes never get old. *yawn*


Exhibit #5: Laser Hair Removal and Plastic Surgery ads

They're everywhere. Apparently, Utah is full of grotesquely hairy ape-like men and tragically small-breasted women. Poor people. It's a good thing there are clinics on every corner to satisfy this urgent need.


Exhibit #6: Modest clothing ads next to Lingerie ads

Something for everyone. Or perhaps there are many women in the valley who shun showing any flesh above the ankles and elbows by day (by wearing tent-like dresses that ensure any onlooker will be able to assume your gender only by the fact that you're wearing a dress) and become lace-clad vixens by night.


Exhibit #7: Trophy Homes

OK, only in a ridiculously commercial, pathologically obliterate-the-Joneses society can you name your company specifically to appeal to the uncontrollable drive to have "trophy" anything. The ad I noticed the other day features a nice-enough but fairly cookie-cutter home and says something about having the best without paying too much. Having the best. That's what matters. Of course, what "the best" means doesn't seem to matter: it was left completely unexpounded. All that matters is "having the best". Well, I'm sure the trophy homes will greatly appeal to the deeply indebted men and the trophy wives who love them. You know the kind: the no-taste guy who has little personality and even less class but enough money to attract an orange-skinned, streaky bleached-blonde, equally uninteresting wife with artificially bulbous bosoms. Because hey, it's all about trophies.


So maybe I'm a bit harsh in my critique of that last example. And maybe I'm spot-on. Either way, I find it very refreshing to see the rare billboard that actually shows some sense of taste and reflects marketing/design skill among the sea of completely undesigned, mass-market crap ads. And better yet, I love seeing the Foundation for a Better Life ads. I absolutely love what that organization does.

Just To See If I Could

I parked in our small parking lot outside the condo yesterday after work next to the grassy bank at the base of the mountainside which is our backyard, and as I shut my car door, I caught, out of the corner of my eye, an explosion of sand-color specks from the grass.

Naturally, curiosity kicked in, and I walked the 6 feet or so over to the curb by the grass, and as I did so, a few more little bits popped from the grass to other more safely distant positions.

These little hoppers were very small grasshoppers. Apparently, there is a very large, very young family of grasshoppers living in the grass next to our parking lot. Very small, very cute. I moved my arms quickly a couple of times to watch the popcorn-like mayhem each time as they scattered. Fun.

I stepped carefully because a couple of little grasshoppers, in their chaotic self-preservation, had somehow thought jumping to the pavement might be a clever idea. I set down my bag and followed one of these confused little critters as it hopped away around the corner into the other patch of grass, and I bent down and cupped my hand over it, like I used to do when grasshoppers were fascinating and fun on a lazy, sunny afternoon, just to see if I still could catch them. I've still got the skills.

I smiled to myself as I thought, "Yup, the kid me is still in here somewhere."

Worth Being Nibbled From Head to Toe

This last Friday, I jaunted up to Idaho for the weekend. After stopping for dinner and some really good conversation with a friend on the way up, I arrived in Pocatello and was quite content to settle into my Ellen bed for a good night's rest.

Saturday was a full day. It started with canning wheat and rice at the church building with Maw. I occupied myself, when not helping open bags and fill cans, with taping boxes. Took me back to my days in the UofI Bookstore shipping and receiving department. Next was moving storage and eating a late lunch at The Olive Garden with Maw and Paw (and introducing them to the joy of virgin mojitos, which they loved). Then perusing unfinished twin homes with Maw and Paw and their neighbor, Ann, followed by golfing (for the first time in YEARS) with Ann (Maw drove the cart). The day finished with dinner with Maw and Paw. I slept in the basement of the I.F. home. The spidery basement. But none had shown up in the traps for a while, so they were presumed to have relocated. Perhaps to a summer vacation home.

I now think they have just wised up to the traps and are now strategically positioned in advantageous nooks of the basement, such as under the covers at the foot of the guest bed downstairs. That night, I had a strange dream. I was walking somewhere--maybe the golf course--and suddenly, I felt a sharp prick on the bottom of my foot. I tried ignoring it but stopped to check and pulled a sharp piece of something from the bottom of my shoe. I tossed it aside and kept walking, but as I walked further, I looked down to see my shoe crumbling as I walked, and if I remember right, some of my foot was crumbling along with it. It was a bizarre image. When I woke up, I discovered I had a bite on the bottom of my foot. Happily, my foot was still intact, as were my shoes.

Later that day, I drove "home" to Provo. But my nomadic spirit compelled me to wander along the way when I realized that, due to unexpected traffic delays, I was not going to make it to Kim's ward in SLC by 2:50 as planned. So I stopped to hang out with a friend, Josh, in Layton for a bit. We chatted as we explored a busy park there (I had commented it was just the kind of day to spend in a park, so we did). A park with lots of water. Water means mosquitos, and not few. There were a couple of picturesque little spots I wanted to capture in photos along the trail in this surprisingly large park, especially the sun-dabbled overhang over the silty stream with the mother duck and her three small ducklings learning to forage for food by scraping algae, snapping at bugs and...pecking at floating balloon pieces. The world needs fewer stupid people who don't think (or don't care) about the consequences of their actions. Speaking of which, when I went off the main trail at one point, I discovered a guy sitting by himself in the seclusion of the trees who quickly scrambled to hide whatever implements he may have had when he heard me coming. I don't want to know what he was up to, but it likely involved chemicals and needles. Lovely. The weirdness of that was quickly countered by a man biking down a short hill with a trailer attached containing two little tykes who were cheering and putting their hands up in the air like they were on a roller coaster. Very cute.

I decided not to lean on the fences when I found them covered with little red mite-like things. I generally avoid touching red critters. And despite the occasionally beautiful spots (in the middle of Layton, go fig), I didn't want to linger long in any one place because inevitably, some eager blood-sucker would try to get a piece of me. And no, I'm not talking about Josh.

Along the way, we passed a nice amphitheater, discussed other cool places to see in the area I knew little or nothing about, and paused so I could witness a wave pool in action (which I'm now remembering isn't my first--I think I've seen at least one other). We found a path that led into a relatively dense little patch of suburban forest around a meandering stream. If you didn't look over the bank at the library, you might think you were away from suburban sprawl. I didn't know such peaceful, pretty, semi-secluded places existed in the valley. I like having such places to retreat to for quiet reflection on occasion.

The time came to continue down the road towards Provo. Mind you, I had hit crawling traffic for a good stretch heading into Layton, and now, in the later evening, I was hitting another such jam heading south from there. I'll be very happy when they get that freeway finished. I went to meet up with Kim in Liberty Park.

I parked in the first spot available, which happened to be right next to...a crime scene? A black car sat on the grass/sidewalk between the parking and the adjacent street. The car was not in good shape. The entire front right section looked shorn off, right passenger tire buckled underneath, tire totally flat, airbag deployed, car leaking large puddles of ruddy fluids. A shaken and disheveled woman, the driver, was talking with several policemen. About 30 feet behind the car, two bikes, one tipped over, rear wheel bent out of shape. I wasn't sure I wanted to know the story, but I was relieved at an onlooker's explanation of what he and his wife and kid had witnessed: the car had come soaring from the street, glanced off a light pole (I then noticed the lamp dangling from the top of the post overhead, surely jolted loose from the impact, along with the crack in the post), and came bounding over the curb onto the path along the park, glancing a bike (which the rider had, thankfully, jumped off of just in time). I turned and started to walk into the park only to notice a black shard in the grass in front of my car, just inside the park. Mind you, this was a good 40 feet from the site of impact. She smacked that pole a good one. I thought about keeping the piece of car as a souvenir, then decided to toss it towards the rest of the mess of car scraps, away from the grass where little inattentive feet might step on it.

From the car wreck, I walked into the park past what I can only describe as a mini hippie-fest. The oddly bittersweet smell emanating from among the drum-beating, under-dressed, overly-hairy, under-washed, free-loving gathering indicated the presence of more than mere incense. Sweet: drunken car wreck to pothead convention. Nice start to this odd sampling of Salt Lake City life. Then on to the urban, hip-hop D.J. next to the basketball courts, further across the park to the water playground full of chubby children too large for their little swimmies, the corn on the cob cart doing great business, sand volleyball games, the random creepy guy biking slowly, likely trolling for his next client to buy whatever fantastic hallucinogens he may have had in his backpack, couples on towels coincidentally too narrow for two, families at picnics with frisbees and happily bouncy puppies...all part of a beautiful Sunday afternoon in Zion.

Kim and I had some great pasta she had prepared along with baguette with Beecher's Honey Blank Slate and some raspberry butter from the Lion House Pantry. Then we walked around the park, finally settling onto a bench under a honeysuckle-clad trellice where we discussed the nuance, complexity, and simplicity of faith and doubt, especially in light of individual circumstance and trials such as Abraham being asked to sacrifice his son, all while watching fire-spinners practice their skills from dusk into nighttime next to their huge, blue and white, vintage bus (the kind that reminds me of the old canister vacuum I used to use on the stairs at the Moscow house).

While strolling through Liberty Park, I noticed mosquitos, though not totally absent, seemed to be less of a problem. The gnats, however, would follow us in thick clouds, and I gave up trying to fight them, figuring I'd just shrug and inhale the dumb things. If they were too stupid and inconsiderate to keep their distance and avoid my intake valves, a dark, snot-coated demise was just what they deserved.

By about 10:30, I decided to call it a night, and I headed down to Provo. I arrived at home, unloaded, and got ready for bed, with my usual mug of water set beside my bed should I awaken, parched, in the middle of the night. My roommate saved me from a terrible, but almost certainly really fun-to-observe, fate when he looked down towards my water from the top bunk and mentioned something in my mug of water. I looked over to find a house spider of some sort holding on to the lip of the mug as it dipped down to sip my water. It was drinking. From my mug. It was almost cute. Well, at least until I contemplated how the scene might have played out had my roommate not alerted me to my little drinking companion and I had raised the mug to my face. I wasn't in the mood to share my water, and I proclaimed I'd been bitten enough for one weekend. Normally, I try to have mercy on all creations. Mercy was not extended in this case.

So here I sit, journaling my weekend, exerting some serious self-control to not scratch the bite on my foot, or the one on my shin, or the one on my neck, or the two on my right arm, the one on my left elbow, the two on my left hand, the one on my right knuckle...and thinking the weekend was worth the nibbles, even if there are more enjoyable ways I can think of to be nibbled all over.

You Know What They Say About Lifting With Your Legs?

...yeah, it's good advice. Don't get lazy about it. My old body just can't take abuse like it used to in my younger years.