The Sybarite and the Materialist and/or Hoarder

 

sybarite - noun - person who is self-indulgent in their fondness for sensuous luxury (Google).

Sybarite is a fascinating word that apparently is gaining in popularity since its initial use in the mid-16th century. The word derives from Sybaris, once an ancient Greek city in southern Italy, where sybarites thrived. Sybarites are materialists who tend to have taste, preferring the elegant over the cheap. In short, they are hedonistic in nature, reveling in things that are sensuously provocative. According to biographers of F. Scott Fitzgerald, he was a classic sybarite, one drawn to epic grandeur even though his wallet was not capacious enough to support his cravings for the highlife. The sybarite, in my mind, is a cut above your average materialist, one who ranks material possessions and physical comfort as more important than spiritual values.

If I were to consider my neighborhood as a microcosm, I'd say that the majority of the populace is materialistic. "Big is better" seems to be a mutually decreed motto as everyone around me is building up and out, eliminating all green space for the sake of comfort. At the extreme end of the materialists would be hoarders, those who can't stand to toss out anything for fear it just might be valuable at some point in time. I have known more than one hoarder in my lifetime (one lives two doors down) and realize there is a psychological component involved that tugs on the strings of compassion. My own mother, a victim of the Great Depression, was a closet hoarder, meaning that all of the stuff that she wouldn't throw out, she accumulated in a gigantic closet: our garage. Just after her death, my father, who was seven years younger than my mother, and hence, too young to experience the Depression full on, looked at the floor-to-ceiling expanse of moldy "antiques" and declared, "Don't even bother to look through it. It's all going." Within days, five dumpsters were filled and carted away. 'The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away."

Over the weekend, I helped a dear materialist friend pack up the contents of her beach house which is slated for a complete million-dollar renovation. She told me that over 200 boxes were filled and stored although to look at the place, still brimming with miscellany, you wouldn't think so. Nothing that she wanted to keep was of any monetary value nor was it necessarily in use. For example, she had about ten identical Corning casserole dishes. In forty years, not once do I remember her making a casserole. The rub is that she owns two other homes in different states that are also packed to the gills with goods. I can't help but feel for her two adult daughters who will someday inherit the expanse that will most likely fill thirty dumpsters, contributing immensely to some lucky landfill in New Jersey or Pennsylvania or Florida. The psychology behind my friend's inability to let go of things is simple: she had spent a large portion of her life with her mother, who died at nearly 100, and anything remotely associated with her, my friend has found impossible to release. The six-hour experience of packing (seemingly to no real avail) left me wanting to return home and start eliminating/donating anything impractical on my own shelves.

When it comes down to it, I will admit that I do like to indulge in expensive vacations as I like to stay at the four and five-star resorts. If that makes me a sybarite, then so be it. When it comes to material things, though, I'd like to think that I am not Madonna, the material girl living in the material world. I'd like to think that if all of my possessions were eliminated via a holocaust, I'd would just fall back on, "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away." To lose everything would force me into a more spiritual state of being. Which wouldn't be a bad thing. Would it?

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Mastering Maundering

 

maunder - verb - to talk in a rambling manner; to move or act in a dreamy or idle manner (Google)

The English language tends to be on the surprising side. Perhaps some would postulate that "surprising" is euphemistic and that what it really is, is confounding. Take the verb maunder for instance. I found it while reading Lois Banner's authentic 2012 biography of Marilyn Monroe, The Passion and the Paradox. Just in case you didn't notice, the word has two unrelated definitions so that context clues located within the same sentence would be totally necessary to determine the writer's intended meaning. Apparently, Marilyn was often guilty of both: chatting away incessantly or ambling about as if sleepwalking. I am guessing that if you really tried, you could very well do both simultaneously albeit it would take cognizant effort, and everyone would question your sanity. 

This past Friday, I did a bit of essential maundering (definition 1 and 2) separately at a very upscale wedding on Long Beach Island in New Jersey. The set-up would have pleased any suburban sybarite within a radius of at least 200 miles. The reception was held at an elegant yacht club on the bay side of the island. Facing west, guests on the back deck had the opportunity to view a picture-perfect sunset while imbibing top-shelf booze and indulging in sundry selections at a raw bar during the cocktail hour. It was at this time that the maundering (definition 1) was at its best. There was even a soundtrack provided by two-tenths of the Earth-Wind-and-Fire-esque band (a pianist and saxophone player), imported from Philly; however, those engaged in conversation had to up the ante in terms of volume just to be heard. And before I knew it, there was cacophony, which caused me to want to relocate anywhere peaceful enough to maunder (definition 2) on my own. So I drifted inside only to find myself maundering (definition 1) with the grandmother of the bride, banter which continued until everyone from the exterior migrated into the interior, and the band began to play with such vehemence that any and all maundering (definition 1 and 2) ceased to exist, and guests either tried to shout above the music or gave in and danced to it. All in all, though, I would have to conclude that the party was exceptional, with or without any opportunity to maunder in either sense of the word although ultimately, I found that maundering (1 & 2) was practically effortless.

And now I find myself alone on Monday with only the second definition of maunder to contemplate. On the other hand, neither you nor I have the time to go through the day in a dream-like or idle state. Maundering may have to wait until the weekend unless I can get back to reading about maundering Marilyn today :).  

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Slime vs. Literacy

 

slime - noun - glop made from glue, baking soda, and contact solution (picture Silly Putty or Play Dough on a grander scale) that is currently trending among elementary school children.

Early on Sunday, I decided to be brave and take an unprecedented risk. Finding myself in my attic, I hauled out several boxes of books–titles (mainly for children) I had written and published years ago– carried them to my car and drove a few miles to become one of about fifty vendors at a local street fair, a.k.a. swap meet or flea market. The cost was $140 to camp out for seven hours on a segment of the pavement measuring twelve by six feet on Union Avenue in downtown Cranford, New Jersey. Quaint, compact Cranford has been used as a location for a few films and cable TV series, notably HBO's The Plot Against America based on Phillip Roth's timely, 2004 novel of the same name set during World War II. The innocuous, suburban hamlet fits the bill as the setting since it is complete with a stone railroad station built in the mid-1930s and Victorian hotel at its center, but I digress. As I was going to sell my paperbacks for $5 and $6, I didn't think I would break even no less garner a profit; but because my main man in L.A. told me he would make up the difference in long-stemmed roses, I figured I had nothing to lose. 

The organizers of the event placed me, my card table, chair, simple signage and boxes of books in front of the food trucks and between a primitive fine artist sans a right eye and a entrepreneur of slime, i.e. a mother of a teenage daughter who at the age of nine was into making and marketing her own–slime, that is. As the girl grew into adolescence, the manufacture and distribution of slime grew banal, so her mother usurped her business, invested more time and money in the making and packaging of the glop, and became a regular at street fairs throughout the state, jumping on the bandwagon of a trend that is on the ridiculous side. (But aren't all childhood attractions?) I figured that the monocular artist wasn't competition, but the purveyor of slime? I had no idea how popular homemade putty could be. Scores of children dragging their parents lined up under the vendor's tent to press their fingers into soft, colorful samples of pure slime and to whine and plead for anywhere from eight to twenty dollars to buy what they can probably create at home for much less. Very few parents even noticed that I was selling books, selling literacy, for so much less. I have to admit that I was glad the kids were pumped up to experience something digital (tactile) as opposed to digital (technological), but I was disappointed that the parents were so quick to dismiss the idea of buying their kids signed books that took many years to write, illustrate, and publish. At the end of the day, ironically, the bearer of slime made hundreds while I walked away with $53. (My boyfriend owes me $87 worth of red roses :). And I will hold him to an arrangement stipulated in the arrangement.) 

As I wheeled my collapsible red wagon filled with unwanted, once well-received/reviewed books up Union Avenue toward my car lodged in a parking garage blocks away, I couldn't help but think that there might be something a bit off kilter with parents who don't value the idea of literacy. In today's world, it seems that there are more writers than readers as it has become so easy to self-publish a book on-line as an e-book. If parents don't promote reading then who will read the massive amount of techno tomes? Teachers already have too much on their plates. And besides, there is a national deficient of individuals willing to toe the line and go into teaching as a career.  If parents are forced to homeschool as a result, will there be a sufficient amount of emphasis on the core subjects like reading, or will the science of slime and the like be at the center of it all? Okay, maybe I'm being a bit cynical here, but when it comes to education, I'm kinda of worried about the future. How about you?

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The Entente, Ians, and Shakespeare

 

entente - noun - a friendly understanding or informal alliance between states or factions (Google). 

Lately, the entente has populated the domestic as well as foreign news. Due to the unmitigated wrath of Hurricane Ian, two normally politically unfriendly factions–Democrats and Republicans (namely President Biden and Florida governor Ron DeSantis)–are expeditiously seeing eye-to-eye in terms of relief funding: Biden being the giver, DeSantis being the receiver of the dollars. Ironic as it may seem, natural disasters affecting human life and interactions tend to motivate ententes albeit the human equivalent, war, often causes the opposite: strife among the warring factions as well as neighboring states that are forced to take sides. And then, there is the smallest, most personal entente, that which is made between friends or relatives, that might also prove pernicious or perilous. 

Those of you who follow me (both of you) know that I belong to a book club of former colleagues. For October's selection, I, whose turn it was, chose Ian (no relation to the hurricane mentioned above) McEwan's Booker Prize-winning novel Amsterdam that involves a pact between two close friends, Clive, a well-known classical composer, and Vernon, a respected journalist. At the novel's entrance, the men interface at the sparse funeral of their mutual lover, Molly, who at a relatively young age, contracted an unnamed, fatal disease similar to ALS. As he fears a similar fate, self-possessed Clive decides to involve Vernon in a bleak entente: should he fall victim to a terminal disease, Vernon must agree to call in the British equal of Dr. Kevorkian to end Clive's life a.s.a.p. to prevent any unwanted suffering. Eventually, a reluctant Vernon does decide to sign the dotted line of agreement, but only if Clive consents to do the same for him. As Drama will have it, at the turning point, the two find each other in a political debate, which does irreparable damage to their friendship. The end, as you might have already guessed, is far from agreeable. In fact, it is a wonderful example of situational irony. (I'd love to spoil things and tell you what happens, but I'm hoping you'll read the book, which is under 200 pages and highly digestible, but probably not while imbibing champagne, a wine that figures into the plot.)

When a pact of any kind is mentioned, particularly one involving money, I tend to find the nearest exit as soon as possible. William Shakespeare's "Neither a borrower nor lender be/For loan loses both itself and friend" (from Hamlet) is the one quote that has stayed embedded in my memory for good reason. Ententes involving the loan often turn sour as the borrower, who is often a friend, forgets he is the borrower and usually absconds with the funds, forgetting the original terms. Which is why when push comes to shove and I feel the urge of altruism or am backed into a corner, I tend to give food rather than cash. Why? It is a pure need rather than a want. Most people who consistently rely on relations or acquaintances rather than a legitimate bank to make ends meet are usually guilty of poor decision-making regarding their own lives. Rather than learn from their mistakes, they keep making them, knowing that they can always depend on the lender, the friend or relative, to be at their beck and call with wallet open and the willingness to be forever generous. I am sure that if you are reading this, you know exactly what I mean as you have "been there, done that" and couldn't afford to buy the T-shirt after it was all over.

The takeaway: There is nothing wrong with giving, but there are ways of being magnanimous without enabling. An honest entente need not involve anything controversial that might test the love between you and someone close to you. It could be as easy as, "The next time you find yourself short of cash, give me a call, and I'll cook you dinner." Feel free to borrow the line. It's on me :). 

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