Welcome to Everydad's Den. The wood work reminds everybody of a neighbor's appropriately weathered shed. The leather upholstery is worn to perfect comfort, like a television biker's jacket-- curated prop selected by only the most sensitive production assistants, acquirable only at the most remote second hand stores. 72'' Smart TVs sit on propane-fireplace mantles.
That isn't very comfortable for me. Anxiety. I always forget to take my shoes off when I enter people's home-- shit kickers all soggy and wet. Maybe that's why Everydad/Uncle/Neighbor is looking at me all crotchety. Maybe its not crotchety-- but there's his distinct eye muscle accusing me, that inevitably, I'll ruin something. If only by sitting down too heavy-- off kiltering a fragilely balanced painting of the local beach hanging to the wall.
Well, then again those aren't my comforts. Forgive me as I struggle out a list of appropriately rarefied, but simple, semi/non-material pleasures-- things that will distinguish myself as apart, cleverly distinct and worth reading in comparison to Everydad (Fuck that guy):
1.Wearing nothing but sheets around the apartment when roommates are absent, parading about semi-nude in some softcore Hustler version of the early BCE Mediterranean. 2. The realization in a quiet morning, as work gets started, that I haven't masturbated in several days (probably out of town)-- and then setting things aright. This may be turning into an exhibitionism. I enjoy conversating about sex-- there is a delight in exciting thoughts in mundane and non-sexual situations. Ho ho ho. Mall of America transgressions. Anyway. Right, comforts. 3. The first cigarette after 6 months of none. The calm certainty when trying to quit anything addictive that starting again is simply achieved. 4. Putting on my old work boots, remembering I used to wear them everyday, then also remembering I no longer need to wear them everyday.
No more exhausting parenthetical, "meta-writing thoughts", they are as nauseating to read as to write.
I brought up comfort for purpose. I am thinking over it. Comfort. For many comfort can be an aspiration. Economic comfort-- security in food, living space, materials. Comfort of self-- freedom from abuses, impositions, associations. Perhaps by "Comfort of self", I am referring to the view from inside out-- the world's place as seen from the singular eyesocket. Then next would be the "Comfort from Other", freedom from abuses, impositions, associations muscled upon a person from the many forces exterior.
It's interesting that Comfort is also viewed by another angle as oppressive. Or pacifying. Perhaps when taken as assumed? I cannot conclusion this one. Words such as "authentic" come to mind. Authenticity is a lonely judgment lens to perceive the world through. But perhaps in a limited way it implies or points to something incomplete to "apartheid style" Comforts. Everydad at rest in the barcalounger on the hill.
In a very different context, in very different conversations, I remember a quote--
"Secrecy and the absence of transparency is a great dividing force. It separates the informed from the rest of society. Society in the dark is left to act their lives with imperfect information. Made less relevant by accident and at times by design."
I'm inclined to think of Comfort as similarly divisive. The varying degrees of the comfort divide.
Comfort is a bad word. It covers trivialities, side by side to fundamental humanities. Both are served the worse by association-- maybe my own doing in presenting them according. I have had two mugs of wine and I am infuriated at this point. This is hardly even the tip of the bit beneath I wanted to mull over. The grand matter is where all these varied forms of Comfort intersects the dollar.
Goddamn it, I believe my line of thought is growing tenuous-- I am rusty at this writing business.
For now, a lyric comes to mind:
"Nevermind what's been selling, it's what your buying."
I buy a lot of comfort. I buy nearly all my comfort.
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