Free State Observer

tribe - noun any aggregate of people united by ties of descent from a common ancestor, community of customs and traditions, adherence to the same leaders, etc.

They came from the Seacoast (on the eastern border), Salem (on the southern border), and Winchester (on the western border). They came from the city (Manchester) and the country (Barnstead, Grafton). They came from all over New Hampshire, by way of states all over the U.S. (Maine, Washington, California, South Carolina, Kansas, Georgia). They came to help me move into my new home.

None of my blood relatives came to help me (in fact, none of them even did me the courtesy of acknowledging that I’d invited them to do so). None of my coworkers, some of whom I respect and enjoy, and some of whom live in the same town as me and told me they’d help me, actually showed up to do so. But every single New Hampshire Porcupine, to a person, who told me they’d come to help me, kept their word and did so. Several brought their children, and put them to work as well. Kids hauled my garbage, searched my house to find where my shell-shocked cats were hiding, and planted a shrub in my garden as a housewarming gift. Every single one of these people could have found a more enjoyable way to spend a beautiful warm Saturday (it was even the birthday of two of the kids (twins)).

These people are my tribe. I have a tribe! One and only one thing unites us, but that one thing is enough: the realization that we don’t need government. That, in fact, government usually/always (opinions differ on this point) does more harm than good. The government certainly didn’t help me move. It didn’t carry any furniture down my stairs. It didn’t come over, shake my hand, hand me a business card, and say “I live down the street. If you ever need anything, call me.” It didn’t rent me a truck (a private business did that). It didn’t provide me a modern-day place to “hunt and gather” enough “bananas” with which to buy a house (four entrepreneurs who founded and run my company did that). All it did was leave a nasty note on my car for I’m not sure what reason (parking too long on a public street by the U-Haul office?) warning me that if I didn’t move it soon, I’d get towed.

The actual move took very little time: about 45 minutes on the loading end, 30 minutes on the unloading end. The rest of the afternoon was spent eating, drinking, joking, gossiping and debating political philosophy. And when it comes right down to it, that’s what life is all about. There are certain timeless and universal truths. Babies are cute. Cats do funny things. Charred meat and beer taste good. People fall in, and out, of love. And we hairless apes still, after, what, 6 million years?, are arguing about how best to live together in relative peace without stealing each other’s bananas. And that’s OK! So maybe the occasional four-letter word was shouted (in front of the children, no less!). Each of us respects the others’ right to keep the bananas they’ve picked themselves.

For the first time in a long time, I have a sense of hope. I suddenly understand on a different level that it’s not about improving the government, or finding a way to coopt it, or take it over, or defeat it. It’s about learning to work with it, or around it, or flat-out IGNORING it. And in the meantime, we’re teaching our children, and earning our livings, and building our homes, and living our lives. Good, decent lives. With gossip. And beer.

Excuse me for quoting a politician, but it really is a good line: Government is not a solution to our problem, government is the problem. If you, like us, understand that… and also understand that there ain’t no such thing as a free lunch (aka TANSTAAFL), that you need to find an honest way to earn a living and put a roof over your head and bananas in your belly… then I invite you to join us here in New Hampshire. (But please, don’t come if you haven’t grasped both halves of that last sentence; we have ways of dealing with those types…)

Join the Free State Project now.

No Comments

Three years ago today, I blogged about how I was leaving the Libertarian Party and becoming politically independent. To paraphrase the Dead, what a long strange trip it’s been since then.

Today, I’m declaring a different kind of independence, and one that I believe is more significant than a political party affiliation or lack thereof. I spent the day moving some of my crap into my new home, the first house I have ever owned. Owning my own home has extreme emotional, almost mythical, significance for me. While most little girls were playing with baby dolls and dreaming of their wedding day, I was playing with my extensive collection of toy horses and dreaming of owning my own ranch. Laura Ingalls was my imaginary friend (really). OK, maybe there was some less wholesome play with my Ken doll and a bevy of blond plastic vixens, but let’s stay on topic, shall we?

Not only am I moving into a new house, I’m moving into a completely new lifestyle. I spent my childhood living in a succession of utterly stereotypical 3-BR suburban ranch houses, and my adulthood in a succession of apartments, shared flats, and shared houses, all in cities. Now, I live on a “mail carrier rural route”! I have my own sources of water and heat, and enough land and vegetation to raise my own produce, dairy, and even brew my own maple syrple if I want. Of course, I’m not focused on any of that right now; I’m focused on when is the Internet getting turned on (40 hours, not that I’m counting or anything). I may be a country geekgrrl now, but they’ll take my high speed phat pipe from my cold, dead hands!!!

I’ve never been responsible for care and upkeep of my own place of residence before. If something broke, Daddy fixed it. Or the University fixed it. Or the landlord fixed it. Or the property management company fixed it. Now, if something breaks, *I* fix it, or go without. Considering I had trouble figuring out how to open a f@@@ing bird feeder earlier today, I’m thinking I have a LOT to learn. I’d better stop drinking; I need every remaining brain cell.

I’m not so deluded as to think I’m truly independent and self-sufficient. I can’t produce all my own food, and have no interest in even trying; it’s far more efficient (and less strenuous) for me to stare at a computer monitor all day and then pay somebody else to produce my food. And while I know I can get by without electricity, I have no intention of living that lifestyle unless things get really Bibliddy and apocalyptic. As for defending myself by actually putting a bullet into another human being, I honestly don’t know if I’ve got it in me, and hope to never need to find out.

So now, with a sore back and aching muscles I didn’t know I had (nothing like wrangling a 55-lb dehumidifier down the basement stairs in 70% humidity; good times), I declare my independence…

– from the municipal water system
– from the electrical grid for heating purposes (have to work on removing that prepositional clause)
– from the municipal waste hauling system
– from any lingering false sense of security provided by the close proximity of city cops
– from spoiled obliviousness of the basic workings of common household appliances
– from scraping ice off the car windows at oh-dark-thirty AM (yessssssssss)
– from carrying 30-lb bags of kitty litter up two flights of stairs
– from air conditioning and electric dishwashers

Just kidding on that last one. Homegirl NEEDS A/C and a dishwasher.

2 Comments

I think I owe an apology to everyone I’ve ever pulled a high-and-mighty on for working for the government, or a government contractor, or a less-than-savory private organization. I’ve spent much of the last three days working for a nonprofit thinktank. A thinktank that provides services to the Department of Defense, and Department of Homeland Security. I’ve leapt through various mental hoops, coming up with creative ways to justify this. *I’m* not killing anybody. *I’m* not building things that will kill anybody. I’m just helping people who, more than likely, tell the government how to more efficiently kill somebody. That’s not so bad, right? It’s like peeling potatoes in a Nazi kitchen. Potatoes don’t hurt anybody! And everybody’s got to eat. Right? Ummm… Anyway, at least it’s only going to be two weeks worth of Nazi potato peeling.

I’m reminded of a job I had, back in my mid-20’s, working graveyard shift one week for the IRS in a tax check processing center. Politics aside, it was probably the worst job I ever had. I was half psychotic by the end of the week. Wrote a song about it. Wanna hear it? Here it is.

****
Punch it in, early morning, coffee crash low
Slam another cup and you’re ready to go
Got your smile frozen on
And a gleam in your eye
Multinaticorporate cutie-pie
Information matron on the 20th floor
21st century whore.

Sit right down, turn the terminal on,
And become a good, dutiful automaton.
Keep your eyes on the screen
And your hands on the keys
‘Til your head starts to pound
And you’re stiff in the knees
Not even sure what you’re doing it for
21st century whore.

Milling and shuffling with the rest of the herd
Every day get a little more inured
Run and hide in a stall
Ten minutes of relief
You’re an overtrained, underpaid slab o’ beef
Time’s almost up, then it’s back for more
21st century whore.

It makes perfect sense
Submission to co-option is the best defense
Cut out the middleman, sell yourself for more!

[guitar wailing here]

Struttin’ your stuff, lookin’ cool and mean
In a suit of silk and gabardine
You’ve got all the moves
You’re smokin’ now
Climbing through the ranks to be number one cow
Shake it for me, baby, sexy corporate boor
21st century whore.

21st century,
Living’ lap o’ luxury,
Upwardly mobile,
travellin’ in style….

Whore.

2 Comments