Man is the artificer of his own happiness ~ Henry David Thoreau
I am a kind of paranoiac in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy ~ J. D. Salinger
North Americans just cannot seem to get enough. Of anything. So many laughed at the face, their own face, as they saw themselves in Super Size Me. We tsk at the excesses of others who drink, drug and dance too much. And yet.
We can't seem to get enough happiness.
The backlash toward Jerome Weeks, from those angered by his Salon article on doctors' over-prescribing antidepressants, points to a similar sort of guilt-driven indignation, and inability to read a message clearly.
Weeks clearly notes that there are those who legitimately need medication, that he is not trying to undermine its importance in some people's lives. Yet a maelstrom of but-buts once again welled, from folks who would formulate their protests before hearing out, or fully reading, the argument.
Happiness has become the most recent in inexplicable commodifications of the human condition. And we're hooked. Funny thing is, no one's ever been able to define it, so how can it be boxed, sold and prescribed?
I saw a production of Tom Waits' Black Rider last night, and I'm now thinking of these Waits/William Burroughs words from 'Crossroads', about selling out something integral for some temporary kicks:
Now, George was a good straight boy to begin with, but there was bad blood
In him; someway he got into the magic bullets and that leads straight to
Devil's work, just like marijuana leads to heroin; you think you can take
Them bullets or leave 'em, do you?
Just save a few for your bad days
Well, now, we all have those bad days when you can't shoot for shit.
The more of them magics you use, the more bad days you have without them
So it comes down finally to all your days being bad without the bullets
It's magics or nothing
Time to stop chippying around and kidding yourself
Kid, you're hooked, heavy as lead
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