Civil War
Some people are worried about the possibility of a civil war in the United States. It might be a real concern, or it might not be—it's hard for me to say. But not because of a polarized media landscape, echo chambers, algorithms, special interests, or even the psychological effects of fear and dread. No, it’s hard for me to say because I’m fighting my own civil war.
An ever-widening ideological divide between my mind and body wreaks havoc on my soul (not to mention my nerves, lower back, and—so I’m told—my prostate). This mind-body disconnection perpetuates spiritual fragmentation, which is to say it’s making me a miserable bastard.
In a last-ditch effort for unity, I’ve invited both parties to the negotiating table, enlisting my soul as mediator to ensure the compromises between my body and mind are mutually beneficial and focused on holistic wellness, transcendent harmony, and some goddamn peace and quiet in this monkey brain.
What follows is a transcript of the mediation that took place:
Soul: Okay, Mind… Body… Thanks for coming to this meeting of… well, me. I’m expecting a real Namaste spirit, gentlemen, so let’s all take a deep breath and try not to kill each oth—
Mind: Can I help you?
Body: Doubtful.
Mind: What’s your problem?
Body: My problem? I tell you what my problem is: I not only see your stink eye—I smell it.
Soul: Oh, boy…
Mind: I’ve got stink eye? You’re the reason we can’t go to all the good restaurants anymore and enjoy the ambient lighting or the gorgeous menus with the fancy fonts.
Body: Look, asshole, these eyes have put in their time, okay? They don’t do small print anymore.
Mind: Well, hopefully, the next time we take our vitamin C, you don’t mistake it for Ambien and force us to make waffles for the cat all night.
Soul: Whoa, whoa, whoa! Let’s lower the temperature, boys. Remember, the goal is compromise. What if we just got some readers? Maybe a pair of glasses for the office, the car, every room in the house…?
Body: I could come around to that, but I’d prefer something unassuming, something subtle.
Mind: You just don’t want everyone to know you’re dying.
Soul: Is that so bad?
Mind: I guess not.
Soul: Wonderful! Okay, what’s next…ooh, okay, remember we’re breathing, we’re breathing… We’re calm… We’re tranquil… We’re going to start a conversation about about our athletic aspirations—
Mind: I want a marathon.
Body: What?!
Body: Pfft! We don’t need another t-shirt. We need another pair of knees.
Mind: That’s on you. We were killing that kid in the pick-up game. Give-and-gos, pick-and-rolls, low post footwork. We were all up in his head—you just couldn’t keep our kneecap on straight.
Body: Maybe I could have if you weren’t spiking our cortisol and adrenaline, talking all that trash about his cross-eyed mother.
Soul: How did you know his mother was cross-eyed?
Mind: Did you see his jump shot? There’s no way that kid’s mom wasn’t kicked in the head by a donkey.
Soul: Okay, so how about we start with a brisk morning walk? Commit to it for 30 days and see where it takes us.
Mind: It better take us 26.2 miles.
Soul: Body?
Body: I can do a daily walk.
Soul: Boom! We’re making real progress. I commend you both on your flexibility.
Mind: That’s a pretty slick segue, Soul Man.
Soul: I’m a professional.
Mind: I agree. I think we’re okay. I do wish we had kept up with the yoga classes.
Body: I do, too, but the social embarrassment risk was a bit much.
Soul: Social embarrassment?
Body: Downward dog is more like downward fart factory.
Mind: That’s fair.
Soul: Maybe a nightly stretching routine, something off of Instagram?
Body: As long as it’s not Cirque du Soleil or some Kama Sutra porn actress.
Mind (under his breath): Pussy.
Body: What was that?
Mind: I didn’t say anything.
Soul: Okay, so a little light stretching, but nothing that involves the words “full extension” or a summoning of your kundalini power.
Mind: Before we go any further, I have to insist that we increase our strength considerably before we get any closer to retirement. I don’t want to merely hold my grandbabies, I want to build them oak bunk beds with my bare hands, I want to be shirtless while I’m doing it, and I want younger men to ask me how to get abs and shoulder caps. This guy is gonna be a sexy grandpa.
Body (under his breath): Douchebag.
Mind: What was that?
Body: I didn’t say anything. Maybe you just heard the creaking of my joints as they endured your prepubescent fantasies of looking like Hugh Jackman.
Mind: I’m not asking for Wolverine. I’d just rather not look like a middle-school librarian when I wear a tank top.
Soul: Maybe we should talk about nutrition?
Mind: Talk about it all you want, it’s not gonna keep Mr. Midnight Snack over here from choking down Cheez-Its by the fistful.
Body: Cravings start in the mind. So if you’re feeling a little fatty-fatty two-by-four over there, maybe stop doom scrolling all that food porn after midnight. You’re like a friggin’ gremlin—shove food down your face hole and our waist line multiplies.
Soul: So we all seem to agree that our nutrition could use some work, yes?
Mind: I mean, I guess.
Body: Yeah, whatever.
Soul: So… can we start with eliminating Cheez-Its?
Mind: Um…
Body: What?
Mind: You trying to provoke us?
Body: Yeah, Soul, no Cheez-Its? You outta your damn mind?
Mind: I would characterize an elimination of Cheez-Its as a crime against humanity.
Body: An act of war!
Soul: Nobody’s trying to start a war. I’m just looking for common ground.
Mind: Cheez-Its are the common ground, you son of a bitch.
Body: What he said.
Soul: Okay, okay, okay. Retracted. Cheez-Its stay on the menu.
Mind: That was close.
Body: It really was. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I was ready to punch in the nuclear codes.
Mind: Same.
Soul: My apologies. I never intended to impact our delicate… balance.
Mind: Balance? Buddy, without Cheez-Its, we’re talking total destabilization here. Like, Defcon 1.
Body: Exactly. You can mess with a lot of things, Soul, but you don’t mess with the sacred ground of crunchy, salty carbs.
Soul: Duly noted. So maybe we start with portion control?
Body: I could maybe do portion control. Like, two fistfuls instead of five.
Mind: Or, you know, alternate fistfuls with gulps of air or something. Let’s not get drastic.
Soul: Fine. A reasonable compromise—Cheez-Its in moderation.
Mind: Cool. As long as we’re clear that Cheez-Its remain a non-negotiable.
Body: Agreed. At this point, they’re basically therapy.
Soul: Speaking of mental health—
Mind: Hey, I would meditate all the time, but this guy… He needs a Ritalin IV drip. I’ve seen spider monkeys on blow who are less fidgety.
Body: Maybe if you stopped buying aspirational clothing, I wouldn’t be so uncomfortable. The days of a 33-inch waist are over. Grieve your young man’s physique already!
Soul: Maybe we could meditate in sweats and a t-shirt?
Mind: Fine.
Body: And let’s also be done with the crisscross applesauce posture. Feels like an arsonist set a California wildfire in our side saddles—these hips are never not burning.
Soul: Okay, last thing. Kind of the elephant in the room. How are we looking downstairs?
Mind: Downstairs?
Body: Like, you mean, two turn tables and a microphone? Those downstairs?
Soul: Those are the ones.
Mind: We are looking, feeling, and performing just fine downstairs.
Body: Total agreement. Downstairs is not an issue.
Soul: Fully functional?
Mind: We are a well-oiled machine.
Body: Shit, keep the oil, we don’t need it.
Soul: Let’s not get too cocky.
Body: Nobody has ever complained about being too cocky, am I right?
Mind: Preach, brother, preach.
Soul: Wow, we’ve reached the mountaintop, figuratively speaking. I guess we can go ahead and release the doves.
Mind: We should celebrate.
Body: Way ahead of you. Here comes a fistful of Cheez-Its.
And if you haven’t picked up my dark crime comedy novella Dig…
You got me with walking. I decided to start walking again....first somewhere away from my lounge chair to may be down the steps to the lower level where I should start a new canvas in my art studio. No, that's out. There is nothing I want to paint. I'm afraid it would scare me if I even tried....like mixing greens and browns and getting that sickly manure color, just out of spite. Then I'd toss the canvas and feel guilty about the money I just threw in the trash. This is no time to be creative. It would only depress me more. I used to walk up and down our street each and every morning early to put everyone's paper from their driveway up to their door so they didn't have to come out in their PJ's to pick them up in public. People appreciate that when I did it for over a couple of years. But, that no longer interests me. I've lost interest in walking....even in helping people. Charity starts at home, my mother always told me. Not any more. Charity ends right here. Where did I go???? Who am I? What have I become?. Anger is not in my vocabulary. Or wasn't. I do take the dog out to walk. She has no fenced yard, so I have to. I try to get her to take me on a walk, but she just looks as me sadly and says, I'm finished and it's getting cold out...take me in. She's 8 and really cute, so she rules. I try to go out without her and walk....but I hate cold, so I find it depresses me....what there is left, that is. I can't watch the news. I find myself wanting to hide under the covers so I can wake up to my other world...the one grew up in. I need the ocean, a boat, somewhere someplace.....Ice cream helps, but then I think about how fat I'm going to get.
I feel your pain!! The struggle is real!! Wait til you’re in your 70s?!😳😜