Offend in Every Way

Behold!

Oh my gosh, look what I got at the library book sale last weekend. Look!

As you can tell from the cover, it’s going to be very useful in helping me create “objects of lasting value.” Like this owl of lasting value.

I’m the luckiest girl in the world.

Hey! Know what I’m tired of?

Among other things, I’m tired of reading body-hating posts in my Facebook feed! Yes, I am. Oh, so tired!

I really like Facebook, because it helps me, a person who is chronically and notoriously incapable of staying in regular contact with my friends, stay caught up on my friends’ lives and even interact with them once in a while. I know it’s very popular to hate Facebook (but still use it, obviously) and I’m not saying it’s perfect by any means, but I think it’s a great tool for communication, social organizing, event planning and time frittering. I’m even inclined to defend Facebook on occasion. Like when people use it as an example of why the kids are not alright, or suggest that any time spent on Facebook is inherently time wasted.

In my opinion, Facebook (the platform itself, not the company) is morally neutral. It isn’t bad because it forces people to stay indoors instead of wholesomely playing outside, it isn’t bad because people can use it to violate other people’s privacy, it isn’t even bad because bullies use it to bully people. Facebook doesn’t do those things. People do those things. Facebook itself is a tool, a blank canvas waiting to be used for whatever purpose we choose. It has immense potential to be used for good.

For that reason, it bothers me more to read body-hating bullshit on Facebook than in other places. Whenever someone posts a picture of a fat person shopping at Walmart, or says this kind of person with this kind of body shouldn’t wear that article of clothing, or writes about how they were sooooo bad and had a brownie and they still have 13 pounds to lose until they are a real person who can finally begin living their life and deserving nice things, I think about how they have this marvelous tool at their fingertips that will magically broadcast whatever they choose to every single person they know, which they could be using to send out a glorious fucking love-beam of depth and power, and instead they are beaming out shame.

And I’m tired of it.

The Duck

I went for a beach walk Saturday and came across a gravely injured duck struggling to stay afloat in the waves. I waded in, pulled it out of the water and carried it up the beach, away from the tide. Its black body was soft and light and wonderful to hold.

I then spent an hour on the phone, calling various local agencies to try to find someone who does marine bird rehabilitation. “We don’t respond for ducks,” they kept telling me. It seemed to imply some kind of bird hierarchy in which the life of a duck was somehow less valuable than that of another bird. (Imagine if I had found a pigeon.) I was told I could leave the duck on the beach and “let nature take its course.”

Finally I talked to Jane at the Alaska SeaLife Center. She was four hours away, but she told me she’d call around to see if she could find someone closer who could come get the duck. She said she’d call me right back.

The duck lay on the sand, leaning to one side. Every few seconds it lifted its head and opened its beak in a silent gasp. It radiated pain.

I couldn’t leave the duck. I found the duck. Am I separate from nature? How strange to use that word “nature” to create a division between humans and the rest of the world. What was happening on that beach? A duck had a gash in its body, just under its wing. It was in pain. It was dying, and experiencing pain and dying. If I left, it would just be “nature taking its course.” If I stayed, we would be two mortals on the beach together, both of us dying.

There is nothing you can do to make a duck comfortable for death. I kept my distance, knowing it was a wild animal and any attention I gave it would probably only terrify it further. I propped up a piece of plywood I found to block the wind. I sang softly to it. I called it “honeypie.”

Jane called me back to tell me that a woman who does bird rehab was in town and walking her dogs on another beach. Her name was Mary Ann, and I called to give her directions to find me. She drove her truck onto the beach and hopped out with a pet carrier. She expertly scooped up the duck and put it in, headfirst. I asked her if it was doomed. “He looks weak,” she said. I asked her to call and let me know what happened to the duck, either way.

My feet were freezing. I walked back to the car and drove home. My son was eating lunch and watching “Ratatouille.”

“Hey, Honeypie,” I said, and kissed his head.

Mission accomplished!

WordPress Stats tells me that someone found my blog by searching for “James Dobson fuck you.”

This is exactly the kind of Googling I support and am proud to be associated with. You, dear wayfarer of the Web, are among friends. Welcome.

Habitual honesty

From now on, whenever I consider the ways in which I could spend my time, I think I’m going to add “instead of writing” to all of my choices (except writing, naturally). For example: I’m going to wash the dishes (instead of writing). I’m going to play the guitar (instead of writing). I’m going to listen to the news (instead of writing).

The reason I’m going to add “instead of writing” to every activity is that I want to remind myself how important it is to me to write. It is important enough to me that I should weigh my need to write against my need to do anything else. I have a feeling that writing will beat many of the things I usually spend my time doing. I’ve spent a lot of time in my life writing, and a lot of time not writing, and I know which I need to do.

When I choose to fuck around on Pinterest, I need to say, “I’m going to fuck around on Pinterest instead of writing,” if I want to be honest with myself. I need to acknowledge that the time I am about to spend fucking around on Pinterest is time I could spend writing, and that writing will be sacrificed.

Sometimes it will not be more important to write than to wash the dishes, or to feed my son, or to go to work. That’s okay. When I say, “I am going to feed my son instead of writing,” I’ll know that I’m making the right choice. Writing will wait for me.

My goal isn’t to make myself feel guilty. I don’t want to give myself a guilt-trip. I just want to be honest with myself about the decisions I am making. I’m a master of self-sabotage who will do anything to stay distracted long enough to avoid getting down to it. Maybe if I get into this habit I’ll be able to trick myself into telling myself the truth.