On Better

This week I moved into the House of Love. A creepy old house on the water, its dimly lit with assorted baroque antiques adorning every dusty corner and an odd collection of hippies and alumni who've hung out here since the late 70's. Its somewhat of an institution around Purchase College. They like pagan holidays and throwing big parties where hundreds of people come and middle aged men with ponytails shred on out of tune guitars until the sunrise blinds everyone who isn't already cross eyed from drinking.

This place is everything I ever wanted and I am deeply frightened.

This week Steve Caldwell passed away. An early proponent of the "Better" theory, Steve lived the majority of his life as a quadrapelegic after a debilitating car accident in 1963. Better Farm was founded in the early 70's with his accident insurance money.

The Better theory is about acknowledging that a problem is an opportunity for spiritual growth. To not balk at unpleasantness. To confront the moment with determined resolve. To not flinch. To observe.

I'm sitting here with a head cold listening to the sounds of I-95 as tractor trailers vibrate my windows. My housemates have to walk through my room in their sandals because we live in a railroad. The house cats are fighting and breaking dishes. There are washed up hippies hanging out on the porch. Dust is settling in the corner. The power is flickering. The heat is low. The pagans are smiling. We are a bastion of apathy and aesthetic idealism in a sea of conformity and affluence.

Bukowski said to beware people who preach love...

I say we're all in it together.

Better.