Two Sons of the Same Earth*

Not long ago I had the words Il faut imaginer Sisyphe heureux permanently written on my inner arm because the essay that ends with that line has for many years been to me a source of great comfort. ¹**

At least it was my intention to end up with those words. In actuality I had the words Il faut imaginer Sisyphe heurcux written on my inner arm because by the time the artist got to the final “e” my arm was weeping fat droplets of blood which washed away enough of the stencil that I walked out of the shop flying with elation but shamefully misspelled, a mistake I only noticed once home and de-endorphinated enough to compare essay to arm and note the difference.

But my artist is a professional. “Come in when it’s healed,” he told me over the phone. “It’ll only take a minute to make it right.” For the next two weeks I itched and fretted until I thought enough healing had taken place at which point I wandered back into the shop.

“He’s with a client right now,” they told me, so I waited and waited and waited and then waited some more until finally he was done. I presented myself with arm outstretched. He capped off my hour of waiting with a three second look-see. “Nope,” he pronounced. “Not yet healed enough.”

Well fuck, I thought, then I slouched toward home to heal some more. Over the next week I took especial care of it, and as my hours free from children are so very limited I made an appointment to avoid any additional wait. But the time I was given meant that I’d have to rush out the very second the exhusband came in or else lose my slot and have to wait another week, and as the exhusband is often sometimes late, I needed to plan very carefully to avoid this eventuality.

Very carefully indeed².

So carefully did I plan that I intended to have the entire meal on the table, the children served and car keys in hand when he walked in the door. To that end I made a black bean soup, and at t-minus twenty minutes I endeavored to perform the final step which transmogrifies rustic pot-of-beans into velvety spicy deliciousness; to wit, The Blending of the Beans.

At that exact moment I received a text. Oooooo, I thought. Perhaps it is one of my friends requesting some nakedness. This would have made my night. Instead it was from the exhusband, who warned that he might be running just a teeny bit late and reminded me that he still needed my Christmas list. He’s always late, I grumbled to myself. But no matter. I’ll just be more efficient. And I was. In the space of thirty seconds I’d assembled the blender, set the table and found a piece of paper upon which to write my list. What should I ask for, I wondered as I scooped scalding beans into the blender. I have everything I need.

As I made to flip the blender’s switch it hit me. An immersion blender, I thought, pausing just long enough to scrawl it on the list. You really should have an immersion blender for tasks like this because running scalding food through a traditional blender is just asking for trouble. And as I carefully pushed the list a respectable distance from the steaming blender³ I gave myself a brief, silent lecture. Put a towel over the lid, I told myself sternly. Pulse briefly. Remember what happened when you made this soup a few months ago? The last thing you need is…

And then I hit the switch, and despite my best efforts with pep-talk, towel and rapid pulsation the my tragic bean-blending history repeated itself. Picture it: Kitchen covered in scalding beans, Christmas list covered in scalding beans, self covered in scalding beans, carefully-tended arm covered in scalding beans.

There you go, Alanis. I’ve written you a whole new verse.

You’re welcome.

————

*”Happiness and the absurd are two sons of the same earth.”

**You can read the essay in English here or, if you’d like a challenge, in the original French here. Ima go read it again too, as clearly I need the refresher.

1. My very soul revolts at the idea of summarizing the essay instead of expecting you to read it. You really should read it. You are not going to read it? FINE. The mythological Sisyphus could be seen as a tragic figure as he rolls his rock up the mountain again and again, but Camus says that we are all Sisyphus. We all are forced by an absurd world into seemingly meaningless toil, but this is not a tragedy. Instead we create our own meaning in the midst of our toil and this is how we find happiness. In the middle of a ridiculously and needlessly painful crisis a decade back, the idea that Sisyphus could have been happy was monumental. It may have saved my life. Now, you really should read the entire essay, geez. [↩]
2. All of the above is foreshadowing. Pay attention. [↩]
3. Right next to my very expensive phone, naturally [↩]