So, I’m about to throw some badass college-learnin’ booksmart stuff at you. Hold on. Don’t run away yet. I’ll try to make it short and sexy and whatever else we all need in the Instagram Kardashianized Age of Highlightenment.
So, like, there’s this story in Greek mythology, right? About a dude named Sisyphus. In the interest of making this post more entertaining I will opt, henceforth, to refer to him as Sissyface. You’re welcome.
Sissyface did some stupid shit and pissed off the Gods, and they punished his punk ass by compelling him to spend the rest of time – like forever, okay? – at the thankless task of pushing a big dumb rock to the top of a particularly pointy mountain peak. Why thankless, you ask? Welp. Golf ball, paper birthday hat. You feel me? D’oh! Down it rolls. Back trudges Sissyface, to the proverbial valley, to start again.
Yeah, maybe. Or…maybe not.
Along came this other dude, only like a real dude, from France. Albert Camus. In the interest of being more vaudevillian for your enjoyment, I shall mockingly call him Cameltoe, like a sixth-grade bully.
Cameltoe was an existentialist, as so many of the French strive to be. One imagines him sittin’ around his tiny, hipstery, perpetually leaking and drippy flat, fromaging the hell outta some brie and washing that shit down with all manner of alsace and bordeaux. He starts a-thinkin’, about Sissyface. He looks out his smudgy Parisian window and he’s all, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hang on a second there, Sissyface. Maybe your eternal damnation didn’t suck donkey balls after all.”
So Cameltoe smokes a thousand cigarettes, as the French strive to do, and sits his tweedy trousered self down at some old-timer typing machine. He writes this book, way back in 1942, called The Myth of Sisyphus. Critics call it absurdist, mostly because it reached a Most Buddhist Conclusion in a Most Goal-Oriented Europe.
Maybe, Cameltoe surmised between bites of camembert, Sissyface, facing eternity, decided to quit focusing on some imaginary goal and instead learned what all people ought to learn if they want to be happy at all in this Godforsaken shithole of a universe, and he declared: It ain’t about the destination, bitches, it’s about the motherfuckin’ ride.
Cameltoe wrote about imagining Sissyface in the moments after the boulder had rolled back down, him walking, free and buff as a motherfucker, down the mountain to begin again. One imagines the hillside maidens coming to their doorways to ogle He Who Could Be Played By Young Russell Crowe. That was the Sissyface who most interested Cameltoe, the one who was pretty much just like the rest of us suckers, on the train or bus or freeway after hard day’s work, heading home…free at last, but actually, nah.
Enjoy the trip, babies. That’s my point. Have a goal, sure. That’s awesome. Flex those muscles as you chase it. But don’t forget to luxuriate in the lather of your own sweat. Don’t forget to whistle on the way down. All you have is now.
Be like Sissyface and Cameltoe and Buddha, baby.
Be here now.