The “Routine” Drug

A gentle reminder from a friend that I had not added to my blog recently got me to thinking about the drug-like effects of a “routine”. It quickly becomes something that one relies on to make it through the day. It allows hours, days and weeks to pass without much notice. And when in the midst of it, one can easily become quite selfish, absorbed in the details of getting to the next part of the routine.

So, I am addicted to my routine right now. Although the last few weeks of silence were broken up by a very not-routine trip to Paris for Thanksgiving to meet Arden. I made him walk everywhere so that I could enjoy the freedom to actually move around without checkpoints, without cement walls, without generators, helicopters and sirens filling the air with reminders of the mayhem reigning in Iraq. As one might imagine in Paris, we studied paintings, visited sites of historical import, and most importantly, ate extravagant desserts. I have eased back into my routine thanks to several packages waiting for me on my return, filled with sweets and other, longer lasting reminders of home!

Unfortunately, however, I was also welcomed back to Iraq with the news that one of the Iraqis with whom I work closely was not returning to work after receiving death threats aimed at her and her family for her “collaboration with the occupying infidels”. A terrifying thing certainly for this young woman, and a reminder how different the daily routines are for Iraqis, who hide their faces, hide their identities, hide their lives behind the thin walls of their houses.

My work routine is probably like many of yours in that the daily repetition of certain tasks is invariably interrupted by the oddest events. Some days fly by, and all I’ve done is responded to dozens of emails, the issues which the sender probably could have addressed himself had he spent half a minute thinking about it (Note: scene of aforementioned correspondence work is pictured at left.). Other days drag, and I look at the time on my watch, on my computer, on my cell phone, on the wall clock (as if I am not obsessing if the measuring tool is different), and I wonder about what it must be like to have a job that is so all-consuming one never has time to consider time. There probably isn’t such a job, but I have the time to ponder it!

I have an evening routine that allows me to avoid any awkward social situations where I might meet people. I go to the gym, and the class I attend it timed such that I don’t really have time for dinner (no loss!), and by the time I am finished and showered, it is just easier to cozy up with a book than find an activity, or someone with whom to “activity” (government employees are encouraged to make nouns into verbs, for efficiency’s sake—your tax dollars at work!). I did break up my normal routine last week (left my kick-boxing class early) to attend a screening of the new movie based on the early career of Johnny Cash. I don’t care what the critics say; Joaquin did a fantastic job and proved that there still are actors with an incredible range of talents. It raises well the old question about what is means to be a tortured artist. Sometimes artists do survive unimaginable experiences; sometimes their lives are very ordinary, but the individual is acutely sensitive, or acutely self-indulgent.

I am bothered by the now predictable routine of my government. Behave unethically, behave unethically, behave unethically. Obfuscate in the face of questioning, obfuscate in the face of questioning, obfuscate in the face of questioning. Cover-up, cover-up, cover-up. The very notion that we have not come out and flatly denied torture camps, and denounced the idea as abhorable in this day in age, leaves me numb. Much like my routine in Baghdad, despite it efficiency in making the time go by, leaves me numb.