So over it.

Now, something was making me think about the war in Iraq, and can't remember what it was. I do know that it wasn't the president of Iran - neither his speech at Columbia nor his decision to shut down all discussions about Iran's nuclear program.

I believe it had something to do with trying to carry an extremely heavy desk home with Dave, though I don't know what. On Saturday we went to the Brown Elephant thrift store on Clark St. and, without consulting me, Dave decided we would truck the thing home sans truck. Often when he makes decisions of this type I try to be game, because my own image of my physical fitness is somewhat idealized - picture me outrunning a tiger, for example, or becoming world-class boxer. Then you should have a good idea.

However, my actual, technical physical strength is a bit different. Picture instead, if you will, me walking half of a heavy and unwieldy piece of furniture about 4 blocks, nearly bursting into tears, being driven home the rest of the way (10 blocks or so) in a friend's van, and having a cramp in my arm for the rest of the day. Dave felt terrible, I felt terrible, it was a great time all around.

Earlier today he sat at the desk in the gray light of seven a.m. - a white desk in a blue room on a muted morning. It made me very wistful - I wished I could sit there and drink tea, but instead I walked to the train, past the Buddhist monk on our street who waters his flowers in the morning.

...Now, you might be asking yourself What on earth does this have to do with the Iraq war? And the answer of course is: Nothing. The lesson to take away is that I'd rather write, think, and talk about practically anything except our current, bloody war. The last time I had a conversation about it I got into a philosophical argument with my boyfriend's family about the implications of torture for the immortal soul (I was "contra" torture), and I have been exhausted ever since.

But that makes me wonder: why? This is a defining battle in our times, with subtle veins of deception and danger threading out from sources around the globe. We have networks of blackmail, lies, violence; moral uncertainty, religious blasphemy, and a seemingly endless string of abhorrent personal decisions. How is this not interesting?

I'm beginning to wonder if anyone these days (who does not work for the news media or any national government) is really willing to talk about something that many, many others have mulled over before. It's almost as though we've worked so hard to convince ourselves that we need to be original and unique human beings that we've somehow alienated our interests from the world.

And it's not just the war, or our numbingly repetitive political scene (Democrats vs. Republicans: rawr...) - we seem to have become too cool for almost everything. Why talk about our creative ambitions when there are so many other starving artists out there? Isn't it lame to like well-reviewed music or movies? I don't know - maybe this is culture's natural reaction to becoming top-heavy in any area: it tilts over and hides the offendingly important object of our attention under a yawn.

Now, most people are able to pick at least one category of life (environmentalism, government, indie rock, writing, whatever) and continue to care genuinely about it. And that's great. But most of the time they still won't talk about it. Maybe they're worried that no one would be interested.
Or maybe it's just passe to take yourself seriously.




*** Oh, and yes, there really was something that was making me want to write about the Iraq war, but I really can't remember what it was. C'est la vie.

Photo credit: KOP on Flickr