CUZ ART DOESN'T PAY FOR ITSELF

Some days I make dollars. Some days I make art. You can measure the difference in empty wine bottles on the counter.

GOLDEN AGE

Take it from Amanda: we have reached a weird age.

I’ve been settling into life in St. Louis with the girlfriend. As it turns out, taking a month off of work while supporting a social life in three cities is a major financial risk at #thisage. The month of September was rewarding in more ways that I can describe. However, an abundance of available freelance work upon my return to normalcy was not part of the benefits package. As a result, the girlfriend has been footing my share of the bills more often than we would like.

Every weekday, she jumps out of bed at the crack of dawn, assembles a stunning work power-outfit, kisses me goodbye and drives off to the office. An hour or so later, I crawl reluctantly out from udner the covers, shimmy into some worn jeans and a sweatshirt I’ve owned since college, make some lunch, clean the living room or do the week’s dishes, play with the cat, commit us to some social engagements, and ask the girlfriend what time she’s getting home so I can get started on dinner.

 Is "housewife" a controversial term?

Lana Del Rey - Blue Jeans (Penguin Prison Remix) by Penguin Prison

THE MAN, THE WORLD AND EVERYTHING THAT MATTERS

Hiyah, cyber folk.

When we were young and at war with the older generation, I bet most of us pictured ourselves one day as hip, young parents with all the answers. I pictured it—from drinking a martini in a hospital waiting room and passing out cigars, later dunking on Jr. on the indoor basketball court I was so sure I would have in lieu of a living room, to spiriting away the wife for a weekend in Vegas so the kids can throw a high school kegger in peace. I imagined watching MTV with my kid all day and playing the latest Sega console so late into the night that I have to call in to my work and their school.

That was how it looked from the far shore of childhood. I didn't know that Martinis make me retch and cigars make me stink. A lot of the fantasy, though, I still try to hold on to. The broad strokes.

The other day I passed some time between WRITING ASSIGNMENT A and WRITING ASSIGNMENT B by taking a survey on my attitudes about parenting. The form asked, in a number of different wordings, some easy questions:

• "I would prevent my child from spending time with someone with different religious beliefs": STRONGLY DISAGREE
• "There is only black and white/right and wrong": STRONGLY DISAGREE

• "If my child fell in love with a person, I would be happy regardless of that person’s gender": STRONGLY AGREE

Then there were some question I never realized that I’d never considered:

• "A good parent should shelter a child from life’s problems": UMM…
• "I believe in physical punishment for certain negative behaviors": WELL, THERE’S A LOT OF…
• "Holding a baby when he or she is crying is good for him or her": AREN’T THERE BOOKS ON THIS!?

Then there were some uncomfortable questions about who I really am:

• "I believe that I am special because others tell me so": NEITHER AGREE NOR DISAGREE
• "If I do not have not made money by middle-age, I will not feel validated": NEITHER AGREE OR DISAGREE
• "It is sometimes necessary to take advantage of other to get you way": NEITHER AGREE OR DISAGREE

Perhaps the biggest questions of all, but was rendered mute, as naive and useless as a baby.

When I first moved to Columbia for college, it was because I wanted to grow into the person I saw in my fantasies. When I left, it was because I was ready to present myself to the world as an almost finished product. Imagine my disappointment upon taking this survey to learn that I was still so uncertain—that I was still so vain, and nervous, and little and flawed.

The other evening, I was sitting out front of a St. Louis café next to an attractive family of four. A young woman, a well-dressed man who was a little older with the guiding lines of future wrinkles and silvery hair, a baby—unisex for all I could tell—and little boy named Ryan who was maybe 3 or 4. Ryan and I had been making funny faces for nearly a minute and I was running out new moves.

“The moon is bright tonight!” I said, changing course.

“The moon is bright! The moon is so bright!” said the hyperactive little human, twisting his torso with uncontrolled energy in the manner unique to toddlers and crack fiends. He pointed to the moon for his father, who smiled a little warily. “My dad says the moon is bright because it reflects sunlight.”

“Your dad is absolutely right,” I said. “He’s a smart guy.”

“What is the moon made of?” he said.

“Just rocks and rock dust,” I said. He didn’t buy that at all. He didn’t believe that something as dull as rocks could shine so brightly.

“It’s made out of mirrors,” he said. Having little experience with children, I couldn’t tell if Ryan was clever or not for one. Then I wondered for a second if covering the entire moon in mirrors would turn night into day. “If it wasn’t a mirror we wouldn’t be able to see it at night.”

“You’re not a mirror and we can see you at night,” I said.

“There’s lights shining on me!” He pointed to the streetlamps and to the windows of the café.

“The sun shines on the moon the same way these lights shine on you,” I said. He pondered a moment and seemed to accept that explanation for now.

By the time I have children of my own, I am going to have that answer mastered so that my progeny will be the only preschoolers talking about photons, albedo, refraction and entropy. I'm not sure exactly how that lesson will go, but I know how it starts:

Look all around you, little human. In every inch of everything you see there are gazillions of little things you can't see. Every brick of this house is made up of little molecules that are made up of littler atoms that are made up of stuff so little scientist don't even agree on how little they are! And—stay with me now—even that stuff is made up of stuff so teeny-tiny that they only exist in our imaginations! 
 
The world is like that. There always so much going on and we only see the smallest part of it every day.

I'm telling you this because there are a lot of people out there who think they know everything. They look out in the world and think that all that matters is what they see. Worst of all they think the world has to be this way. They think we're stuck because the world is made out of brick, not gazillions of little moving parts. 
 
I'm telling you this because the bricks aren't the important stuff. You, me, your mom, your friends, your cat (Count Sinbad III), and everyone you've never even meet—people are what matters. That we aren't sad, but happy; aren't scared, but safe; that none of us are ever alone and all of us are loved.

Now let's cracking into those protons, buddy!