Jeno Barcsay - Kep vorosben (Picture in Red) (1982)

Can people change? Can I change? Occasionally when I'm on the train or a subway I peer over when I see someone reading an actual book, desperate to see the title. It's so rare now for people to advertise their intellectual tastes so I'm always curious what's going on there. A lot of what I see is (sort of disappointingly) of the self-help variety. People want to change. They want to be something better. Of course. Who doesn't? Billion dollar industries are devoted to motivational mantras and self-discipline. When those inevitably fail we can turn to pharmaceuticals to provide willpower and enhance our mood. I'm a dyed-in-the-wool cynic about all this stuff. To me a good 95% of it is charlatanism, snake-oil, or cheating. Not that I've reached some enlightened state of contentment. Far from it. I struggle with the masses but what pulls me out of my depths of despair are old-fashioned things (sometimes actual old fashioneds served in a tumbler with ice). Inspiring art. An outdoor run that puts my whole body into a kind of temporary crisis to be resolved. Food. Talking to someone who gets you and your backstory and will laugh at the same jokes. Or just a dose of Nature - scientifically-proven to elevate your mood with hardly any side effects. Right now somewhere out there in upper Westchester county is a squat female cardinal with a disheveled crest who has no idea how much good she did me.

I honestly can't judge people who resort to artificial stimulants or Anthony Robbins or whatever else it takes to rouse them out of their lethargy or stupor, but I would always be haunted by the question of whether my happy state came from me or courtesy of Pfizer. It reminds of a famous old cassette tape ad that asked if we could trust our senses - "Is it live or is it Memorex?"

Recently I had to stop taking a cholesterol medication prescribed by my doctor because it felt like my brain was being attacked by darkly invasive thoughts. Thoughts confident in their nihilism. Was this coming from me or the drug? Not taking any chances, I stopped taking the pills. Since then I've been a little bit spooked. Our neural pathways seem so fragile and open to suggestion. Do we really want to pave those roads with foreign substances? If I feel sad or a little depressed, maybe that's how it's supposed to be and I'm meant to stand at that particular intersection of the universe at this specific time. But when a sadness becomes a pit of despair deep enough that you can't see your way out, what then? Having glimpsed those depths on more than a few occasions I really can't begrudge anyone whatever lifeline they reach for.