A Farewell to the Solstice

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The Eastoner - General Midi

It has finally passed. The days were growing longer, immeasurably, minute by minute, just as a child whose growth goes unnoticed by those who spend each waking moment with him, until you realize that, at nearly news hour, there is still not complete darkness. I found it depressing to pull the shades before turning in only to see sunlight in the northwest sky. Our planet, tilted in such a way as to maximize our exposure to the sun in our little corner of the hemisphere, was bathed in sunlight for what seemed an eternity each day. No early evening leisurely strolls in the gathering darkness; no artificial table top fires; the flickering lights of airplanes gently rumbling overhead were snuffed out in the extended twilight. But we’ve made it. We’ve started down the other side of the mountain.

This past Wednesday, June 21st, was the Summer Solstice; the longest day of the year. The western sun worshippers, so thankful for the prolonged agony of daylight, are now beginning the downward spiral experienced by us eastern night dwellers back on December 22nd. On that day, the day after the longest night of the year, the westerners emerged from their colorful cocoons, drawn out by the promise of each day becoming longer. Now, we easterners are awakened from our dreams of nocturnal harmony by the promise of ever-shortening sunlight and the lonely yet oddly satisfying feeling of being the only ones outside in the darkness.

Shorter days means autumn approaches. Even in the stifling heat of July and August, taking a moment to notice the fading orange haze as it dissipates earlier each evening can bring a respite from the heat and the scourge of God’s annoying winged creatures looking to literally suck the blood from our veins. Shorter days means the first falling leaf is within reach of our rake. It means we’re closer to the browning of the crops than we are to when they were first planted. A shorter day brings with it the reminder of the first stinging north wind in early November when everything has turned brown and desolate…perfect in every way.

Rejoice with me, my fellow Easterners, as hypoxic, exhausted alpinists, we take the final step over the summit of Mount Summer Solstice and begin our descent toward the Autumnal Equinox and the long nights beyond. Let’s not ponder December 22nd yet, though; leave that for the Westerners. They need something to keep them warm tonight.

Peace…

TC

To Be Titled At A Later Date

Fickle: "Changing frequently, especially as regards one's loyalties, interests, or affection."

Being a fickle person isn’t all bad. There are certain benefits to frequently changing one’s views on life, be they political, religious, or NFL-related for example. As William Cowper so succinctly put it, “Variety’s the very spice of life.” When you don’t know what particular god you’ll be worshiping in the next five years, there’s some edgy apprehension. When there’s a chance you could become a disciple of Donald Trump before the impeach…within the next 4-8 years, it tends to generate some static electricity. When you know Tom Brady’s retirement is imminent and you have to start planning which seminal dynastic bandwagon to jump on, you tend to question your manhood. These “fickalities” as I’ll call them may sound awful to you and make you wonder “what lunatic could live like this?” The answer: Me.

There have been studies that suggest (i.e. "many people are saying") fickle people are weak-minded and lack the moral compass necessary to lead a fulfilling life, a life pleasing and unobtrusive to the other non-fickle/normal people associated with said lunatic. While I have never been the focus of such a study, I think there may be some merit to that theory. What else could explain how I so conveniently changed my allegiance from the Dallas Cowboys to the New England Patriots? There are other theories, however, that suggest the open-mindedness (or, perhaps one could say "genius") of fickle people allows them to examine arguments and change their course of thought based upon the evidence before them. For example, there was a time when I, the left-leaning radical you’ve come to know and love, didn’t support the legal union of two people who love each other very much…but I got married anyway. BUH-DUM-TISH! I’LL BE HERE ALL WEEK! 

I jest of course as I'm talking about the legal union of two people who love each other very much but who are...GASP...the same gender!!! I certainly wasn’t as (suspiciously) fixated on same-sex marriage as many conservatives are (i.e. “methinks the conservative doth protest too much”) but I don’t think you could’ve called me a supporter of gays or gay marriage back in my care-free "trickle-down economics works for everyone" days. Then, through an act of capriciousness perhaps brought on by an increase in the number of gay friends or maybe it was just common sense, I realized that if two dudes (or two chicks) are attracted to each other (because they’re wired that way and there’s nothing they or Mike Pence can do to change it), then they should by god be able to get married. Call it fickle but I call it…well, yeah, it’s fickle but it’s a good fickle.

Conversely, one of the more difficult aspects of being fickle is when it leads you to question those undeniable truths in life, namely one’s faith. If you know me, you know that I’ve traveled an irritatingly zealous and capricious path of Christianity; lukewarm Protestant praise band leader to Super-Duper “Knows more than the Pope” Catholic to Eastern Orthodoxy to my near conversion to Judaism (see my March 28 entry) and even a brief foray into Rastafarianism (which ended abruptly when my wife wouldn’t let me smoke weed.) There was always one constant, though, the Big Man Himself: Joel Osteen. I’m kidding, of course, it was God. But, when one is fickle, one must be prepared for the occasional spiritual off-ramp and I inadvertently took one last summer. Since then, I’ve been mired in the quagmire of agnosticism. Is He or isn’t He? It’s an awful position to say the least. It’s not the “cold turkey and cigarettes” assuredness of atheism nor is it the “hot turkey sandwich smothered in gravy” that is the total submissive faith; it’s a miasma of ambivalence and ambiguity that results in a phenomenon known as cognitive dissonance: a fancy term for being mentally uncomfortable ALL THE TIME because of these incongruent beliefs.

It’s a little like losing your Grandma and now all you have is Grandpa.  When Grandma is alive, you love to go there for all the warm-and-fuzzies. You walk into Grandma’s house and the aromatic power of chocolate chip cookies and talcum powder is intoxicating! There are hugs and kisses and food and stories and more food and love and it’s awesome. That was Catholicism for me from ’06 to last summer. I absolutely LOVED it (except for, you know, that whole "sexually abusing children" thing.) The history, the bread and wine, and the whole “being better than everyone else” part was awesome! The incense at Mass was like a cartoon where the smell of an apple pie actually picks you up and makes you float towards the pie. Then Grandma died and all that’s left is grumpy ol’ Grandpa.

Now, when you go to Grandpa’s house, there are no more cookies, no more stories, no more kisses. When you walk in, you smell Ben-Gay and farts. When you open the fridge, all you see is a half-empty jar of relish and some week-old ham. That’s agnosticism: relish, ham, and a fart. No more warm-and-fuzzy Grandma stuff, just Grandpa. You know that POSSIBLY something good could come from it, like a barely-palatable relish and ham sandwich and maybe some flatulence that makes you laugh, but you just don’t know for sure. Being fickle has its drawbacks.

As for my beloved New England Patriots, yeah, they’ll probably win the Super Bowl again this year and it’ll be awesome rubbing everyone’s stupid nose in it but let’s be real. Tom Brady’s not gonna live forever and I’ve got to start planning for my next team to follow. I mean who wants to follow the same team for their entire life?  

The ideal scenario is that Brady plays until he’s 50 (which would be a miracle and solve that whole God question for me) and goes full-gay and marries George Clooney, putting an end to the divisive issue of same-sex marriage (except for Mike Huckabee, who’s most likely a closet-gay anyway.) I’m not going to hold my breath on the G.O.A.T. being that fickle, though. Those hardcore, steadfast types need to leave the vacillating to experienced fickle bastards like myself.

Go Chargers!

Thanks for stopping by…

Travis