Life As Performance Art 180

"Perfection is death." Those were the words I heard singer Rosanne Cash say in an interview on CBC Radio just last Friday, I think. I couldn't agree more. I am also reminded of the famous words of Canada's iconic poet-musician, the late Leonard Cohen, who said that everything has cracks in it. That's how the light gets in. We are obsessed with perfection, I think more than ever. There are causes for this, I'm sure. Very easy to blame capitalism, but yes, capitalism is partly to blame. This whole ethos of extreme competition, and the pressure to cut, trim, groom and perfect ourselves, not to make us better people, but more effective candidates for a coveted position, and especially to make us better workers. This is rather scary when you think about it a bit. There is also America's greatest and most toxic global export, US pop culture, which of course has its roots in capitalism and ruthless competition, be they beauty pageants, professional sports, the Oscars, or having to survive corporate mergers and takeovers. There is also the internet and it's evil spawn, social media, with images of lifestyle perfection and eternal happiness and god-like physical beauty that only photoshopping can really achieve. There is also anxiety, such anxiety that is further exacerbated by the looming terror of climate and systems collapse and our own human extinction from climate change and global warming. We are not living in easy times. We are, for the most part better off than we have ever been, healthier, living longer, eating better and living safer in our cities and neighbourhoods. We are also more frightened, anxious and terrified of everything than ever. We have become Snowflake Nation. We have become so delicate and neurasthenic that the word trauma has become one of the most bastardized, overused and misused words in the English language, and the word trauma really ought to be banned for a while, for a good long while. Moratorium. For example the privileged middle class high school kid who doesn't quite make it into the prestigious university they and their parents have trained their radar on. So the delicate little rose petal screams and whimpers and collapses in a neurotic heap of uselessness, and all because the universe isn't unfolding according to plan. They are not going to get that perfect education, degree, graduate degree, pHd, which garbage cans their hopes of ever earning a six figure salary with perks and bonuses, and, oh, the horror, of working in an average position for an average wage in an average neighbourhood, but wait a minute, nothing is average anymore, and you already have to be a millionaire if you want to buy a house in Vancouver. And the threat of global warming and international conflict of course just ups the ante. I have never seen so many people so obsessed with lifestyle and personal perfection and physical fitness. Of course this is also to make us all competitive and perfect little workers. We are also under pressure to have perfect health. Diet, vegetarian, and here in Vancouver, especially veganism has become el plato fuerte (Spanish for the main dish). I have known some very nice, gentle and kind vegans. Also some militantly self-righteous, judgmental and virtue signalling idiots who will dump kale on me for being a mere vegetarian who is not ready or willing to give up cheese omlettes. But I really question the pressure and stress that we are under, that we put ourselves under, in order to eat perfectly, as well as globally and conscientiously. There is also our current obsession with sleep hygiene. We have basically robbed ourselves of proper and healthy sleep because of our perverse obsession with perfection and competition while coping with the angst and terror of the impending global apocalypse, so probably fewer than ever are getting a decent night's sleep. Including me, Gentle Reader. But I already accept imperfection, as part of our very imperfect humanity, on an imperfect earth twirling around in a most imperfect universe. I don't sleep well. I am not physically perfect. I often don't get it right. I try to cut slack, for myself and for others. Perfection is death. Love is perfection, and love also loves, accepts and celebrates imperfection. What could be more perfect, Gentle Reader?