Other Things To Do (Or, One Voice Raised)

Wow. It seems that my last post to this forum was over a month ago. Guess I had other things to do. Some early Spring cleaning, still unfinished. Getting my financial affairs in something remotely approaching order, by hook or by crook. Fretting over certain things in my life that seem too difficult to change. And like that. Yeah, I've been pretty wrapped up in my own stuff. It's my prerogative, right?

Meanwhile, apparently, the world has continued in its paths, regardless of my inattention. And I am beginning to see just how deep that inattention has been.

This morning, one of President Barack Obama's first actions was to ask for a hold on a certain Gitmo case, which was readily granted. According to the news outlets, this particular case is that of a young Canadian man who has been held there for the last six years. Not recognizing the name, I did a little quick research on him, and was stunned at what I found. Because when I say he's a YOUNG man... I mean that HE WAS FIFTEEN YEARS OLD when he was imprisoned.

FIFTEEN, people. Fifteen. He has grown up in our prison. And not just a prison, but a facility which has been charged with unlawful and inhumane treatment, a place where lack of U. S. citizenship means that all bets are off and no holds are barred. His crime was apparently the throwing of a grenade which, according to original reports of the incident, was actually thrown by someone else. And as I read this, I am thinking: How did this happen on MY watch?

The answer, of course, is that I was not watching... or rather, that when I WAS watching, I was JUST watching. I had other things to do - much to my shame. Spring cleaning, y'know. And like that. Yeah.

What could I have done? Roused the rabble? Run interference? Probably not. But I'll tell you one thing I could have done. I could have raised my voice.

I did not. What effect would it have had? After all, I'm nobody.

I am coming to believe that it is above all this sense of helplessness, of powerlessness, that many of us have felt through the opening years of this millenium, which is the most real and present danger of all those which now threaten us. This is the rot that eats from the inside, changing the spirit and substance of this lovely ideal we call America, turning it - slowly but surely - into just one more Hollywood image, the painted cardboard backdrop of a free and just country.

It's just politics as usual, we mutter to ourselves, and flip the channel.

We pride ourselves on being informed, but the constant blast of the news media seems to act as an immunization. The diseases of our society no longer affect us. Why bother to react? It's old hat. And what can one voice do, anyway?

I do not know what that one extra voice might have accomplished. But I do know that silence accomplishes nothing. And if nothing else, every voice raised is a strike against the silence.

One of Barack Obama's favorite campaign stories suggests that "... one voice can change a room. If it can change a room, it can change a city. If it can change a city, it can change a nation. If it can change a nation, it can change the world..."

Underneath the accumulated cynicism of the Bush years is a part of me that once believed in that kind of possibility, and would really, really like to believe again. I'm not quite there yet, but in the wake of this historic election, and the opening moves of the Obama presidency, I'm open to being convinced.

No, I do not know what that one extra voice might have accomplished. I know only that I could have raised it... and that I still can.

Merry Whatever! The "War On Christmas" and the Function Of Compromise

Okay, so it's That Time Of Year, and my next topic has just chosen itself.

These days, it seems like the battle over public decoration is becoming just as traditional as the decoration itself. The next generation may fondly recall December as that magical time of year when reindeer fly over the roof and sparks fly over the nativity scene! And each year as it begins, I find that I just want to sit the combatants down with each other and gently tell them to shut up and listen to each other. (Well, you know what I mean.)

You see, I can't help feeling that, if we were aiming to actually find a solution to the problem, the discussions would be quite different... but alas, we're too busy trying to be right to see or explore any potential compromises. We each want the perfect solution - i.e., MY solution, the one that makes utter and absolute sense to me and every other intelligent person, and which everyone else would understand in a flash if they'd only stop being so hard-headed.

Riiiiiight. And how's that workin' out for ya, my friends?

One result of such tactics - besides a degree of possibly unnecessary and definitely unproductive unpleasantness - is that the problem is never even clearly defined, for each side wants to define it in their own catch-phrases. To one side, it is about suppressing religion; to the other side, it is about imposing religion. Obviously, in a truly "free" country (and please just insert your own definition of that slippery term here, for the moment), we would not wish to do either of those things. And the problem gets even stickier when we conflate the holiday-decor issue with the related, but NOT identical, issue of religious displays and/or public activities at other times and for other purposes, especially permanent ones and especially in places such as schools and courtrooms. So let me be clear that, for the purpose of this particular argument, I am considering those to be two different issues, subject to different sets of criteria.

What makes it really complicated and annoying is that there are really more than two sides to the issue. For instance, some "pro-nativity" advocates would be perfectly fine with also allowing non-Christian religious, humanistic or secular displays alongside the manger scene; others would choke at the mere mention of any such idea. Some "anti-nativity" advocates would prefer to keep all public spaces free of any religious taint; others prefer an approach which requires public representation for all beliefs in a balanced fashion. There is simply no way to satisfy all comers.

But there is... compromise. It's an ugly word to some, but it is the basis of our ability to live together in this multireligious, pluricultural nation. It is, in some sense, the basis of our very Constitution. We like to act and speak as if the Constitution were a perfect document born of a completely realized, ideal philosophy of freedom - but what it really IS is a patchwork quilt of compromises, held together by the basic glue of tolerance. It outlines a system based on checks and balances, multiple levels of governance and appeal, and the understanding that we're not always going to agree. The Constitution is, perhaps, above all else, a document dedicated to the avoidance of excesses and extremes in our official relations with each other. It is aimed, not at creating a PERFECT government, but at creating one that is GOOD ENOUGH.

With that in mind, it seems that there must be some solution to the issue at hand which will, if not satisfy everyone equally, at least allow everyone some measure of satisfaction - provided that we actually WANT a workable solution, and want it enough that we are willing to make concessions in order to reach it. If all we want is to be right, and to continue to righteously defame our opponents, well, we can certainly keep on doing that until Judgment Day, Shiva's grand Dance of Destruction, or (with all due apologies to Douglas Adams) The Coming Of The Great White Handkerchief.

Would it hurt us to begin to think about potential compromise solutions, even if they don't fit our exact beliefs about how the matter "should" be decided? I'll toss one out for consideration... how about this: Seasonal decorations may be erected in designated public spaces during a designated holiday period, but must be placed there (i.e. paid for, maintained, and put up/taken down) by private organizations, individuals, or community groups. That way, if enough people in any given community want a public nativity scene, they can make it happen - and so can the folks who want to donate time and effort and funding for Hanukkah, Ramadan, Kwanzaa, Yule or other holiday displays, whether sacred or secular. Yes, this probably means that the majority (or best-funded) groups would end up with the most spectacular displays, but it also ensures that anyone can get into the game, and anyway, we all know that a display need not be spectacular in order to express a spirit of celebration (and that often the simplest is also the most moving). And sure, a special set of rules would need to be developed (and enforced) regarding parceling of space, safety regulations, and especially respectful behavior toward others' beliefs and displays - but isn't that in itself a useful exercise in tolerance, and a concrete demonstration of just the sort of "good will toward men" that so many like to preach at this time of year?

Oops, sorry, just let me get down off of this soapbox... ahhh, that's better. The above is far from perfect, but it's some sort of a starting point. Any other ideas? I'd love to hear them!

Above all, whatever compromise we might attempt would have to be rooted in respect toward those who do not share our beliefs or philosophies - and also in a genuine willingness to let go of the desire to have a privileged status, to be the only ones who are RIGHT and to bask in the support of the state for that rightness. Because, Ladies and Gentlemen (and Everyone In Between), I hate to tell you this, but it isn't the state's job to figure out who's right. It is only the state's job to help us all coexist despite the fact that we all think we're right. And since in a very real way, we are the state - isn't it up to us to find a way to make it work... for everyone?

Just for fun, a book review: Deerskin, by Robin McKinley

Astounded at how long it's been since I've created a new entry here, I'm figuring it's time to drop something in quick. So here goes.

One of my aims for this space has been to simply use it to get into the habit of writing. So, when no earth-shaking topic presents itself, or when (as today) I just don't feel quite ready to try and shake the earth, I may slip in something a little more comfortable, such as a book, music, or film review. But, be forewarned... I have little interest in being up-to-date or pursuing the popular, and am more likely to spend my words in praise of an old favorite - especially if I feel it's underappreciated - than in chase of the Latest New Thing.

So, in that spirit:

Several of my favorite novels have come from the prolific pen of Robin McKinley, and as I write this, I am in the middle of my eleven thousand, four hundred and fifty-first re-reading of Deerskin. Okay, okay, so that might be just a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the idea. It’s a well-worn treasure on my bookshelf – and this despite the fact that when I first closed the book upon its final page, I was certain that I would never, ever be able to open it again, so wrenching had been the trip. Luckily, I was wrong about that last bit. It’s not a comfortable story to enter, but it is a deeply magical one, and well worth the trouble if you appreciate a more serious fantasy now and then.

Deerskin is a reformulation of an old folktale that isn’t often told these days, for its plot is woven of the kind of stuff that we no longer wish to mention (hush!) in front of the children, and we have long labored under the delusion that fairy tales are purely children’s fare. The original version – titled “All-Fur” in some popular Grimm’s translations – has a simple but disturbing plot: the lovely princess, who happens to be the spitting image of her dead mother, must outwit her would-be incestuous father. When time and inventiveness fail, she simply packs up her valuables, neatly escapes king and courtiers, and heads off into the sunset, where she finds, captivates, and marries her own true prince and lives Happily Ever After. The End.

McKinley’s version is far less simple, and much more finely drawn. Deerskin’s heroine is the princess Lissla Lissar, a long-neglected royal daughter obscured by her mother’s memory, frightened by her father’s madness, and caught in the web of courtly pretense which surrounds them all. In the dark narrowness of her sheltered experience, Lissar can find no better defense than an instinctive, desperate retreat, which cannot shield her in the end from the king’s forced attentions – and I do mean forced. Battered and broken, she flees out into the world, forgetting her past, surviving by luck and stubbornness. The only treasure that goes with her is Ash, a fiercely loyal hunting-hound, heart’s companion of her lost childhood.

What follows is an inspired intertwining of magic and realism which is one of the hallmarks of McKinley’s fiction. Survival is hard, the world is harsh, and when help and guidance finally arrive in the form of the mysterious bright-dark Lady, the favors she bestows are complex and not without price. Along the way Lissar herself becomes a mythic, almost archetypal figure to those she encounters – a cool, remote, self-contained personage lurking at the borders of human society, radiant with a power born partly of her own strength of will and partly of the Lady’s peculiar and unpredictable gifts.

Much of this the reader sees through Lissar’s eyes, through a mind and memory oddly fragmented and guarded. We know what is in it, but she does not, and the stumbling introspection of the heroine will almost certainly be a turn-off for those readers who are not themselves inclined to much introspection. For despite violence, terror, love, loss, magical interventions and large deadly creatures, this is neither a romance nor an adventure novel; the real action takes place on a largely interior stage, a battle of self with self for the prize of either healing or oblivion, with a knife’s-edge balance between the two. This is as intimate a connection as can be achieved without a first-person narrator (and in most cases, even with one), as it is the space inside Lissar’s head which the reader must inhabit in order to fully experience McKinley’s carefully deconstructed fairy tale.

Then, too, McKinley is in no hurry to advance her plot and get to the end; rather, she enriches the reader’s slow journey with small, sometimes random details that show the characters and their setting in four dimensions – a world made solid by implication rather than explication. Readers must be willing to linger, to sit and rock and listen to the tale unfold in its own time, inhabiting the moment. The painting of the queen’s portrait is nearly a short story in itself, spiraling down into a veiled madness which is felt but never spoken. At the tale’s other end, the royal kennels feel so familiar and comfortable that one hardly notices what a significant portion of the plot and character development takes place almost entirely in a single small wooden pen, littered with straw and a scattering of puppies.

It is the heroine’s relationship with her sleek fleethound, Ash, that gives the book much of its early warmth, for Lissar’s world is at first a cold and distant one. In this book as in others, McKinley has a knack for writing human-animal interactions that feel close and meaningful without resorting to crude-but-convenient anthropomorphisms. And it is important that this set of interactions be a richly woven, solid, and believable one, for it is mainly through Ash that Lissar encounters and interprets her world. It is Ash who provides that much-needed point of contact with a wider, more promising circle of human society – and, most importantly, with Ossin, the less-than-handsome prince who does, belatedly, appear on the scene. Ossin himself is one of the most charmingly human characters ever encountered in any fantasy kingdom, and the slow, shy, tentative and (as events prove) precarious friendship between these two is developed with quiet but persistent attention. One might even call it affection, as there is a distinct sense that the writer likes these characters – that they are friends of hers, rather than objects to cleverly manipulate for literature’s sake.

There is a clear but subtle element of metanarrative in Deerskin, a sort of gently sly commentary on the ways in which human lives and the stories they generate are inextricably intertwined. The fairy-tale perfection of of Lissar’s royal parents holds their entire kingdom in thrall, despite the colder reality behind it; the sadder tale of the Moonwoman and her coursing hounds gradually takes on a fruitful and transformative life of its own as Lissar strruggles to find her place in the world. And, although McKinley’s story is light-years distant from its folktale ancestor, the astute reader will smile to catch those not-quite-hidden references to objects and elements from the older tale, often intentionally misplaced to another corner of the plot to suggest a different meaning. McKinley is actually rather brilliant at this, here as in other books (try Spindle’s End in particular), and it may take many readings to catch any given reference (which then instantly becomes blindingly obvious and significant, making you wonder how you could possibly have missed it the first seven or twelve times through – but that’s simply because you were so busy reading the story for its own sake that you forgot there ever was another version). In my favorite nod to “All-Fur,” the three magnificent dresses of the original narrative are rejected one by one, for the easy solutions of the Grimms’ unnamed and still-innocent princess are simply not available to this more real and complicated heroine, scarred by experience. The moon-colored gown she chooses instead is suggestive of the ambiguous, ambivalent lunar imagery – never fully dark or fully light – which haunts so much of Lissar's story.

In the end, Deerskin – like so many of McKinley’s tales – is essentially about how we humans navigate for ourselves the ever-fluid lines between reality and fantasy, both in our minds and in our outward lives. Fear, hope, and potential, the author constantly but quietly reminds us, are intimately bound to the stories in which we find ourselves, and the stories we claim as our own. And this one, indeed, is a story worth living and reliving: harshly beautiful, ripe with familiar meanings and questions newly framed by a master hand.

Of Germs, Guilt, and Gathering Wool

I keep looking at this space and thinking, man, I really need to write another entry. But for the past several weeks I have been down with the bug to end all bugs, and man am I tired, not only physically but also mentally. Couldn't sleep due to coughing fits. Lost my voice entirely for a week. The whole wonderful package. Lovely.

Yeah, I'll be back. For one thing, I simply like to write, and to hear my own voice in writing, regardless of who reads it. Certainly I've no shortage of topics, opinions, or arguments wandering through my head, currently ranging from the outcome of the recent election to the potentialities of alternative medicine. They'll just have to keep wandering for a bit longer. Right now I'm off to bed.

The Politics Of Fear, and Its Remedy: VOTE!

"... the only thing we have to fear is fear itself — nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance."

(FDR, Inaugural Address)

This campaign has been awash with the language of fear. Socialist, communist, terrorist - words not intended to invite careful analysis, nor backed by the details of evidence, but meant to raise emotions, to create doubt and hesitancy. What tomorrow's final count will tell us, among other things, is to what degree we have allowed ourselves to be manipulated by these evocations of fear.

In 2004, the politics of fear gave us another four years of governance by the current administration. We did not repudiate the ethical transgressions, the incompetence, the arrogance, because it also promised safety in the known and familiar.

Fear, doubt, and caution all have their places, and sometimes help us to make wise choices. But we have seen what they do when invoked in the name (or should I say, in the game) of Presidential politics. Voting out of fear in 2008 will only further entrench us in the pit.

Slogans oversimplify life. Age is not automatically better than youth. Experience is only valuable when we deeply ponder its lessons. It may be more comfortable to elect someone we'd like to have a beer with, but it is more effective to elect someone with a keen intellect, a clear sense of direction, and the calm integrity to use them both well. Because, when all is said and done, politics IS rocket science, and it IS brain surgery. At its broadest it is the realm of the Everyman, but at its pinnacle it is - and ought to be - the realm of the Expert. Nor is this elitism; it is pure pragmatism.

I don't know if change will really come. But I do know that it will not, cannot come unless we are willing to take a chance on it.

Take the time. Take the trouble. Get out there. Make it happen.

"It is never too late to give up our prejudices. No way of thinking or doing, however ancient, can be trusted without proof... But man's capacities have never been measured; nor are we to judge of what he can do by any precedents, so little has been tried. Whatever have been thy failures hitherto, 'be not afflicted, my child, for who shall assign to thee what thou hast left undone?'"

(Henry David Thoreau)

Thalia, Give Me Strength...

While wading through all of the various responses to the current Presidential campaign, I'm struck by our unfortunate tendency, in this media-rich society, to assume that all forms of media are created equal. I'm not talking about whether or not we watch Fox news or approve of the current rash of robocalls. No, I'm talking about a much more basic set of distinctions: we seem to have somehow forgotten the difference between serious communications and comedy.

Journalists and politicians are serious people, and they are restrained by the nature of their roles from saying certain things which they might otherwise wish to say. Journalists aim to be objective, or at least balanced, and ideally do not express partisan views; politicians are restricted on the one side by an understandable caution about saying anything that might undermine their own positions, and on the other side by the ethical considerations involved in trying to undermine the other guy's position. These constraints come with the territory; there are some places you just don't go.

But comedy is the wild card, the joker in the pack, and comedy gets to go pretty much wherever the hell it wants to; that's in the contract, so to speak, and has been since the days when Aristophanes' rampaging mob of Athenian wives - ancient spokespersons of the Politically Incorrect - set out to stop a war by witholding sex. Comedy can break the rules; indeed, comedy is all about breaking the rules. It's about inversions and reversions and exaggerations and ironic reversals and the crossing of boundaries. It can be blatantly partisan, or it can lambaste both sides equally - no holds barred. Why? Because comedy is not meant to be taken seriously.

So I have to admit, I'm confused by seeing so many complaints out there about statements made by the likes of Jon Stewart, Bill Maher, and other politically-oriented comics. The complaints go like this: "Oh, everybody cries foul if we say something that isn't pretty, but Stewart can say anything he wants and get away with it???"

Short answer: well, yeah, actually, he can. And not (as some have charged) because he's a liberal, but because he's a comedian. His statements are opinion, cast in a comic light, and are not intended to be taken literally. The comedian is a different animal from the journalist and the politician; we are not meant to mistake the comedian's words for facts, he has never claimed to be unbiased, and he is not a spokesperson for anyone or anything. He may be discussing serious topics, but always with a jocular turn. And if we share his opinions - or if we can get over the fact that we don't share them - we just might laugh.

As a rule, comedians are not required to play nice. And it's a good thing they're not, because one of the functions of comedy is to allow audiences to release tensions - tensions we carefully hold in so that we can play nice with each other, at least most of the time. How many of us have dearly wished we could publicly yell a resounding "f*** you" at the political figure of our choice? Alas, Mother taught us not to be impolite, and it's too late to change now, and what would the neighbors think - but ahhh, how it does the heart good to hear someone else say it! The comic is a labor-saving device as well as a face-saving device; he does it so that we don't have to, so that we can preserve that sometimes fragile sheen of respect between the factions. And in doing so, he also allows us to dissipate tensions and frustrations that might otherwise surface in words that will later be regretted, words that burn bridges - or even in real violence. In campaign season especially, we might all give silent thanks to the Muse of Comedy for this service.

Journalists and politicians expect to be taken seriously. In return, they are expected to guard their words and their motives, and set an example of what our society considers "good behavior" for the rest of us. When they don't, they can be called to task.

But comedians are expected to breach the walls - to be, among other things, a social pressure-valve. When they're too polite, that's when I'll start to worry.

The Perils Of Convenience, or The Incredible Drowning Car

(Since I started this thing, I guess I'll just keep writing. Read on, whoever you are... we'll see if I have anything else interesting to say!)

Contrary to the usual run of things these days, I was in my late twenties before I had ever owned a car. I'd had a driver's license since high school, but was simply never bitten by the bug, the gotta-have-my-wheels bug. A bookish teenager without any social life to speak of, I was far more interested in telescopes, rocks, Bach, jazz, science fiction and Shakespeare than I was in parties, clubs, or hanging out. My city had a good public transportation system, and my idea of a fun afternoon was hopping a bus to the library, or perhaps to the mall to browse through the bookshops, lust over expensive optical equipment I couldn't afford, and eventually ride home happily clutching a new quartz-crystal geode or one of those wonderful heavy-paged turtleback Audubon field guides. It never occurred to me that I "needed" a car.

In my mid-twenties, I worked in a retail store about forty minutes' walk from my home address. I rode the bus on weekdays, and walked when the buses weren't running. There were even a couple of Sundays when I cheerfully slogged there and back through knee-deep snow, arriving wet and cold but in good spirits. I was chubby but energetic; I sweated a lot and I wouldn't win any speed medals, but I preferred to get around on my own; I liked the sense of independence. I did sometimes accept a ride when I was tired, or running late, or had somewhere else I needed to get to quickly; in later years I discovered taxis and occasionally took a cab. But I never really felt underprivileged or deprived by my carless condition; in fact, I never really thought about it much at all. This was my normality; I had somehow settled comfortably into a way of life that most of the people around me found unthinkable. (A new roommate who worked the same shift in the same store once marveled, when I entered: "I left you at home an hour and a half ago, with no visible means of transportation, and here you are!" My response: a bewildered, "Uh, yeah...?")

It was several years later that I finally joined the ranks of car owners, and it happened only through the coincidence of perfect timing and the generosity of a family friend. Certainly, owning a vehicle opened new options for me. Over the following decade, a short succession of used cars - none too expensive, and replaced only at breakdown - gradually taught me that, yes, I could consider attending a class out of town if I wanted to, or an event in another state; I could visit a friend in another city, or a shop that lay beyond the purviews of public transportation. Cool.

But at the same time as such adventures were becoming possible, owning a car was turning into an everyday "necessity" for me. As time went on, I rarely used the gift to its full potential, to explore a wider world; with a few notable exceptions, I remained mostly within a familiar small circle in terms of both geography and activity. That powerful machine became merely a way to get from any given Point A to any given Point B with the least possible amount of time and (especially) effort, without those Point A's and Point B's actually becoming more interesting, challenging, or advantageous to my growth. Why cross that big parking lot on foot if with a few rounds of circling you can cadge a closer spot? Why walk to the corner store if you can drive? Even just going out "for a change of scenery" now meant getting behind the wheel - but the landscape might as well have been a movie background rolling past, a visual shift between scenes, because the trip itself was always the same - for it is the driver's sad fate that no matter what kind of space the car is in, you're still in the car. (It reminds me of a line from one of Robin McKinley's heroines, explaining why she goes about barefoot: "I like to know where I'm walking. In shoes I'm always walking on shoes.")

And every so often, I'd stop and think... it really wasn't so bad hopping buses. Untethered, with merely a few familiar stops as landmarks, no need to remember where I parked or return to where I started, unencumbered by anything I couldn't carry in a backpack - not to mention unencumbered by maintenance schedules, insurance policies, auto loan payments, and that chronic low background noise that softly but constantly whispers, What if it breaks down? I actually thought, on more than one occasion, that I might do better to simply bail out and hand the car back to the dealership.

I didn't, of course. That would not have been a sensible - or even plausible - thing to do, by the standards of the culture in which I was raised. To give up both property and privilege, on a whim? To waste what I'd already spent in payments? To give up midnight runs to the drugstore for chocolate and cold medicine? To force my lazy body into movement again? To deny what is taken for granted among the vast majority of my acquaintance - that it is necessary to have a car, and normal to want one?

Hmph.

Why all this pondering and reminiscing? Because earlier this month, my car and I got caught in a flash flood at the bottom of a rainy road. It was one of the wildest things I've experienced; suddenly we were splashing through more water than I'd ever imagined that section of road could hold, and I couldn't steer to turn aside. I managed make it partway onto the curb, but my motor had cut out and that was the end; I scrambled out of the car through the passenger-side as water rose up through the driver-side floor, and stood in the downpour laughing as I watched the teetering vehicle, one front wheel on the curb, bobbing gently in the waves. Incredible.

And that was that. Water in the engine, water in the computer, and a verdict of "totaled" from my insurance company has left me currently carless for the first time in a decade. And quite comfortable with that situation, thank you very much.

On previous occasions when an old, paid-for car finally broke down for good, I was a commuter, working a good half-hour's driving distance from home; concerned family members urged me to make an immediate grab at the first decent-seeming car I could afford - "afford" being, in that state of quiet quasi-panic, a somewhat stretchable term, involving a co-signor, a very long loan period, and monthly payments that my budget wasn't really prepared for. Well, I suppose I did have to do it, practically speaking. Not so, this time: I'm not currently a commuter, the insurance valuation was sufficient to pay off the remaining debt on my auto loan... and I've realized that I have no intention of incurring another one right now if I don't have to. I don't need the stress, I don't need the financial obligation, and - regardless of what anyone else might think - I don't need the car. At least, I don't believe I do. And I'm going to find out.

The old bus routes are still there, changed some but still covering a goodly portion of the city. The fares have increased, but set them against the current price of gas and they really don't seem all that bad. Yesterday I went grocery shopping with a large shoulder bag and a backpack; I huffed and puffed and grunted and groaned a bit, but sometimes that's good for the spirit. Standing outside on a fall day is hardly the worst thing I could be doing with my time - and when fall passes into winter, well, hey, that's what snow boots are for.

I have realized that, for me, this utterly indispensable thing really is utterly... dispensable. I'm making a bet with myself that my quality of life will go up, not down. Any takers?