January 31, 2021 has come and gone. That date marked six months since I retired and was the date I chose to decide upon a path forward. Six months of notes scrawled into the margins of my calendar. Six months of post-its with ten words of a multivolume manifesto written haphazardly on each one. Six month of mostly not thinking about it, punctuated by bouts of heavy introspection.
My alternative futures were many — all shining like gems on the bottom of the sea… just out of reach, twinkling with the suggestion of greed or desire. All these futures so obviously flawed that it did not require and great feat of breath-hold diving to know the score. All living in Schrodinger’s cat box as both possible and impossible.
I considered Portugal and beginning the process of trading in my society for one I didn’t know. Intellectually, I fully understand the moral of that story — that all societies are kind of horrible; however, I have always found it comforting to feel alienated in a foreign land. I am, after all, an alien there. Here, I just feel alienated — the familiarity just makes it worse. When Portuguese society gets together to perpetrate some horrible injustice, I have no control over it. I can easily dismiss it as “them” or “they.” When we do it here, I am equally powerless, but there is no denying that it was “we” that done the deed.
I estimate that if I had chosen this path, I could have spent 6 months a year learning the language, customs, and history. I would have delved into the arcane culinary minutia to determine conclusively what I like and don’t like about the food there. I could have traveled the other six months — Europe is a varied place; I would not have been bored. I could have even traveled back to visit here — I would like my cultural divorce to be amicable. Really. It’s not society. It’s me.
Where’s the flaw? Oh, birdo! Even if I could figure out Euro parrot licensing, it would be a tough journey. How would I get her back to the U.S. when the war starts? We have to be terrible bureaucratic lurches too. Could I do that to the perpetual 3 year old? To the Green Weenie herself?
Of course I not. Dreams of alien alienation will wait. Perhaps a eurozone passport by 60 isn’t an “end” per se. It seems like a subordinate goal to some grand plan that does not yet exist.
I could go back to school. Last year (or maybe the year before) I had gone through the motions of applying to graduate school. I had enjoyed Rhode Island in the recent past, and think I am at a point in my life where the repetitive head injuries would allow better discipline in an educational setting. While I am not at a point in my life where I am willing or able to pay for school, I was willing to work for it.
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Other programs, like undergraduate biology, have appeal; however, it seems impossible to make undergraduate studies cost neutral. I do not believe I want it that badly. Like Portugal, an education can wait.
What about finding a job? Even if I harbor negative feelings towards society, can’t they hand me a pile of money to be their monkey?
{the clickity-click pauses — a sigh is heard in the background}
Of course. I was a pretty good monkey. I’m sure society would have me back if I asked. I am pretty certain I wouldn’t even need to grovel or degrade myself unduly. I am quite fortunate in this respect.
Don’t take this the wrong way either — I like money as much as the next monkey. I’m not some dangerous degenerate that eschews material comforts and preaches poverty. I simply value a more honest relationship with society than is possible while I’m a kept person (even if we are separated and seeing other societies). Does that make sense? I somehow doubt it does.
Well. That’s all for now. Tune in next week for the answer to the big question… or maybe just a longer list of futures I decided against.