Does complacency equate to surrender?
I must admit that your seemingly straightforward query presented quite the stumper for me. After several unsuccessful attempts at answering your question as posed, I realized that I view this problem in reverse, asking instead, “Does ambition equate to surrender?” since the world at large seems determined to dutifully fulfill their “societal obligations”, probably owing to the fact that a willful lack of ambition is what’s truly anathema in our collective finger-wagging discourse. Or, if you prefer, the reworked question could be phrased: “Do you have the balls to do nothing?”
Apparently, I do, because I managed to avoid working a single day in 2019.
Every year, I buy a new wall calendar to hang in the kitchen. Last year, appropriately enough, it was this:
This year, I realized that if I’m to suspend disbelief and embrace the humanity in my DNA enough to enjoy the new year in ways that go beyond bong hits and iCarly marathons, a different type of wall calendar message for me to superstitiously consult would be in order. I settled on Rick & Morty, but as soon as I opened it and hung it on the wall, I saw January’s message of surprising and hopefully prescient profundity:
And that’s really it, isn’t it? When we know nothing matters, which we of course do, then The Universe is ours.
Can’t wait to see what you choose to do with it, ‘Mole.
In A Single Atom,
‘Mudge
Anonymole - apocryphal agitators 
Everything matters.
Each and every act.
Yes we were born and our bodies will die. Maybe we are reborn every so often after resting from our last birth. We don’t know.
Yes the universe is said to have been born and it is said that it too will die. Maybe it just reconstitutes itself every few billion years. We don’t know.
I choose to think that we move on and that the universe moves on as well.
But whether we live forever or die in one single human life-span what we do matters in any case.
A smile matters. A hateful remark matters. What we do and don’t do matters.
So say I.
Mike
P.S. Note: To say otherwise would say someone who is a fool and a liar is the same as a person who is thoughtful and truthful. This is absurd.
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Through an amazing stroke of serendipity, I came across this post. Here’s to a Rick and Morty year!
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OK. I am tired of pretending to understand what’s going on around here. What’s up with ‘Mudge vs. ‘Mole? Are there two authors? Is that your split personality?
A sloth calendar… I thought of buying one for myself. It seems to fit me perfectly, even though I worked most of 2019.
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This is Anony Mole’s page, but I ain’t him. According to my wordpress avatar, I’m Desert Curmudgeon, though Paul works just fine. I do have a (completed) blog page of my own, but if you enjoy these philosophical debates, you’d probably find little to enjoy over at my ridiculously juvenile online destination.
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Nice to meet you, Paul. Do you prefer dry to humid?
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I prefer dry to humid, New Mexico to New Jersey, and mountains/deserts to coastlines. Although I do sometimes stick out like a sore thumb here in NM because the Jersey Boy in me still swears like it has terminal Tourette’s syndrome. And on the very slim chance that you also enjoy incredibly crappy Nickelodeon teen soap operas from the 90s, this is where to find everything you’d ever need to know about that: notesfromtheavalon.com.
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ANYTHING compared to NJ is gold.
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I describe NJ as Houston, except in Houston you can turn left instead of those stupid circle jerk off and on things for what is not even a real highway.
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Gross.
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An epistolary experiment along the likes of Seneca the Younger and his correspondence with his friend Lucilius. Though neither of us can hope to match the consummate cerebral calisthenics of those two Stoics, it’s fun trying. Thanks for joining the melange.
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I see.
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There’s that word again. Epistolary keeps coming up like a freaking omen or something this week.
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“Eh pistol, Harry?”
“Seein’ how this is a .44 magnum, the most powerful…”
“Si, I feel lucky.”
‘CLICK’
“Damn, I did fire six.”
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Well done!
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Decide to participate, decide to reject it — both appear to induce us to relinquish something. I take your meaning (though I used the thought as a segue into the preservation of tension, always, in narrative.)
Rick’s lifestyle (namely his technical mastery of the universe’s laws (or “guidelines”)), were it gifted to me, would spur a similar rash of rash and whimsical activity… Except for the fact that I’ve shackled my time and resources to the continued existence of dependents. I have surrendered. Relinquished all self-direction. Given up. And it is within this context that you may now discover the source of my constant urging for world calamity. Destroy the world’s civilization and I will be freed to struggle and survive using my wits alone alongside the few others of a similar mien.
When nothing matters, and you have no DNA directed obligations, then yes, the Universe is yours. Elsewise, one becomes the Universe’s beeyatch, bend the fuck over and take it like a man, or a mauwouse.
~~~
I would point out the odd flavor of optimism evident in this post of yours. Did your spice rack spill and dust a pinch of, dare I say, hope into the dish you undoubtedly share with your pal, Jesse? Is he prancing on the ceiling as we speak?
Funny how a human’s moods cycle through the emotions, hope and despair, self-righteousness and nonchalance, intensity and fatigue. Time to rewatch Rick&Morty.
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Hi Crud Mud,
Anybody who uses a Rick and Morty calendar can’t be all bad. In fact, they might be gigantically awesome. I used to think Invader Zim and Courage the Cowardly Dog were top shelf and then along came Rick and Morty and everything changed. Thanks. Duke
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The reduction of all things sacred to the vacuous nonsense they truly are could only be done by an irreverent cartoon character. Rick represents the pinnacle of those capable of dismissing the values of any culture — except for that last critical ideology – to value nothing.
My son and I both agreed that R&M’s video collection are some that should be owned, watched traditionally as those of XMas, and celebrated with drugs, food and alcohol.
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“the world at large seems determined to dutifully fulfill their ‘societal obligations,’ “
The word missing from that is some form of misery. Your choice. I walked out of everything I thought I was supposed to be when I was 19. “Finding myself” took a few years, but I found me. I refused to be processed like a can of tuna on “their” conveyor belts of success. So long Camaro and future Country Club Hostesses and gratuitous frat house sex. What I discovered, all you who chase skirts, is, as my old boss who was rich and my old bass player who is not said, “There’s more pussy out there than I ever imagined.” Regardless of whether you have a G4 or a 2012 Hyundai mini-van. I learned the daughters of rich men found avant-garde arteests more fascinating than frat boys or jocks. Particularly the daughters who lived in dance tights or costumes or painted or welded or wrote or…Did anything but want to be future country club hostesses. Fascinating, smart, sexy women.
Enough. The real meat here – doing nothing – is a cop-out. Chasing skirts does not count as activity. Or productivity. Do something. It doesn’t have to be meaningful, or worth getting paid for doing. Just. Do. Something. Otherwise this entire opportunity is wasted on you. Vonnegut says we are put here to fart around, don’t let anyone tell you differently. So fart around. Wave at a firetruck, wink at a girl, buy a ballerina flowers. Commit spontaneous acts of belonging, even from the periphery. But nothing? Maybe it doesn’t matter, but it’s here to do, whatever it is.
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Rick was certainly a busy fellow. It seemed like he went out of his way to break something and then spending the remaining time trying to fix it. “Whoops, I’m a pickle. Now what?”
Maybe that’s a fun pattern to pursue.
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The universal format for TV from Leave It To Beaver to Rocky and Bullwinkle to Bonanza to Star Trek.
Gee. Wally, we flooded the house. Now what? Golly, Rocky, now what? Hey Pa, we’re takin’ the wagon to Virginia City…
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Hmm, I wonder why I’d never noticed that before.
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Yep. Step in poo and spend half an hour getting it off your feet. The Heart of Television.
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Yeah, that’s the ‘Mudge I’ve come to know and love. Nothing matters, true, and the Universe is mine…but my DNA urges me to reproduce! To do that, OMG the social obligations…work, money, houses, cars, mortgages, debt!! OMG, for the luxury to do nothing and not have this URGE. (Well, I suppose I don’t need all those obligations to reproduce, but I need those societal chains to be accepted by the opposite sex…) So, here I am. Figuring it all out way too late in life. No mulligans this time around!
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Perfect! That’s it right there, the URGE. Prior to a few years ago, I — like most male specimens of the human race — concentrated all of my efforts on either finding or retaining a companion of the opposite sex, depending on the nature of my romantic involvement at any given time. We must work to live, sure, but in my case, minimal compensation is plenty unless I want to make myself somehow “impressive” and the only time I care about such outward image concerns is (was) in the pursuit or maintenance of romance/sex. Though I’m not sure why, the libidinous urge, though still present, has drastically decreased in recent years. Some people take little blue pills to fix that, but I rejoice in the newfound freedom it currently affords me. But, like anything else, this is also subject to change because, like everyone else, I’m just another instinct-driven idiot, after all.
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Perfect! I’ll settle for that. Yeah, it seems to obtain attention from the opposite sex…you NEED all that other stuff. Until, of course, one day you don’t. Glad you’re enjoying your freedom.
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