Steven Moss turned 64-years-old last fall, a passage that prompted him to share the “wisdom” he’s acquired over the past six decades and a half.
In the olden days people spent a lot of time sitting and staring. For a long time that was enough, but as human brains developed, we got bored. We needed to be occupied in some way, so we brushed each other’s hair, shelled peas, knitted, played games that didn’t require much focus, like checkers. We kept our hands busy and let the mind wander.
Sitting and staring is a kind of observant rest, a chance to check out the world as it goes by: whose walking with whom, the latest street fashion, clouds taking different shapes, the smell of the weather, objects in the night sky. It’s an opportunity to let creative, intellectual, financial or personal insights bubble to the surface, popping into epiphanies or just drifting away. To make up jokes. To be completely, utterly, unproductive in the very best of ways.
When I say “stare” I don’t mean jailhouse. Sit-staring is more languid. Not a gape or a gawk, and rarely an ogle. More like a meditative gaze, eyelids relaxed, face softened. At its best it’s an art form, an acknowledgement that we’re all connected, but in a loose, uncrowded way. Come, sit, stare. In amiable silence or easy-going conversation.
As we got wealthier cafes became great places for a good sit and stare. The caffeine focused our attention. Cigarettes added to the mix and became an essential sit and stare prop. Light up and lean against a lamp post or lounge on a park bench as long as you want, sitting, staring, observing without being observed, there, but not.
Cigarettes are mostly gone or have become akin to playing the kazoo; noticeable and annoying. Now we have phones, which have almost entirely replaced the sit and stare. Everywhere we go – hotel lobbies, bars, benches – people look at their phones. Without one, or peas to shell, or something to knit, standing or sitting alone looks creepy, or sketchy. You can barely do it in your own home without getting suspicious of yourself. We’ve eliminated the sit and stare, replaced it with the scroll and scowl. It’s a room that no longer exists, like publicly available bathrooms in privately-owned spaces.
Anger is an underrated emotion. It deserves more respect.
At the top of the emotion pyramid is love. We all want love. But love is a total slut of a feeling. We slather it around like sunscreen on a hot day in Palm Springs. Which is to say, everywhere, all the time.
“I love this dress!”
“Mmm, I love chocolate!”
“Love it!”
Even when used semi-appropriately it’s the face cream of feelings. “I love you,” can be murmured to a baby while you’re changing its diaper, to your elderly mother whose semi-comatose in hospice, or while having sex with your partner. Love for a child, for an object, for an experience, it’s all the same. At least according to the English language. From that perspective, there shouldn’t be a love deficit. You want love, go shopping…which, actually explains a lot about America.
Then there’s sadness. We love sadness. I mean, as long it’s not me who’s sad. Go ahead, cry. Let it out. Tears are valued as an authentic expression of real emotion, coming to life as actual body secretions. Proof that a feeling is real!
Tears are the most sacred of body fluids. Nothing’s more thrilling than so-called “tears of happiness,” it’s like two perfect emotions, together at last. We get to see the tears, but we don’t have to be sympathetic. All the salty, tangy, taste, none of the calories.
Anger scares us. It taps into our deepest childhood fears: rejection, punishment, isolation. Sometimes it goes too far, maybe gets violent, or shouty. But nothing energizes a righteous response like anger. It just needs to be channeled effectively. What do we do when we’re angry? We complain, we challenge, we change things. No one’s pouring out into the streets to protest gun violence because their sad, happy, or in love. They do it because they’re mad. Especially moms. “Arizona mad moms” standup for the mentally ill. “Mad Moms” champions parental involvement in schools. MADD is Mothers Against Drunk Driving.
Anger propelled Prince’s transformative playing in “My Guiter Gently Weeps.” He was furious that he wasn’t on the list of top 100 guitarists.
BTW, madly in love: what does that mean? Upset that you’re in love with the wrong person? Mentally ill love? Hate-fcking?
Let yourself get mad. But just like love, or sadness, point it in the right direction. Anger can change the world, often in good ways. When it doesn’t it can usually be doused by love, generously defined.