I’ve been using Habitica for a couple of years now, using it mostly as an online tracker for my to-do list. On my daily schedule is a long list of things that I try to accomplish every day in addition to my actual to-do list. Here’s what it typically looks like:

• leave the house
• wipe down ginger
• walk / play with dogs
• Read
• take pill
• Floss at night
• Write
• Meditate
• exercise
• empty inbox
• Track food
• chores

Yesterday, including a few dailies that only appear once a week or so (cleaning the dogs’ teeth, etc.), I managed to get them all done. It felt good. What struck me, though, is how much I put on myself to achieve every day. Now, these dailies are primarily reminders to take care of myself. I don’t tend to forget them; however, because there are so many days — virtually, all of them — on which I achieve less than 100% of these tasks, I tend to feel bad about myself.

I mean, all I have to do is a few dishes or take out the garbage to get the chores check mark. Since I tend to poop every day, the reading is taken care of. I take it as a point of pride that I consistently have an empty inbox; I translate any necessary action from email into my to-do list, rather than leave it sitting there blinking at me. Getting into the habit of tracking food happened back when I was  bodybuilding, so it’s easy enough. Not taking my pill rapidly results in suicidal thoughts, so that one maintains its life or death urgency, without hyperbole.

There are a few I often miss, however, when I need them the most: exercise, write, meditate, leave the house, walk/play with the dogs. Walking the dogs is a hat trick. I get three-in-one. And yet, I find myself making excuses for that simple twenty minutes. Granted, our dogs lack discipline and more than once have nipped at humans or fought with other dogs, so a good deal of anxiety accompanies that task.

I’m often caught between two philosophies. Contemporary wisdom points to an almost self-congratulatory forgiveness; that is, if I give myself a break, I’m meant to take that as a thoughtful and healthy practice. I find myself at my happiest, however, when I push myself to work harder. Right now, fight directing Animal Farm, I over-identify with Boxer and Clover. Arbeit Macht Frei.

Now that I have put myself back on the path of completing all my self-work and any tasks possible before noon, my interest in video games wanes. Still, it took quite some mustering, hemming, and hawing to get myself to write even this pointless self-examination. But really, what else is there?

My therapist suggests that I explore an Epicurean path: reduce conflict, emphasize joy. Since my time with BIG, I have always adhered to our motto of “Practice Responsible Hedonism,” so perhaps that will work for me. My meditations have helped me connect with the world, but my particular brand of epicureanism demands disconnection. Hell is other people, as they say, and since connection, true connection, flees in the face of socialization, I struggle to sense joy rather than conflict.

If I accept the money, then I accept that they own me.

Maybe this is why I feel that art and commerce do not interact. My art is also my craft, so in seeking the sublime, there is likely to be a number of failures. We want that one perfect moment where the pieces all match and the team creates art, touches the divine, but even Michelangelo must have had a thousand paintings that were simply craft pieces.

So… take the money and run? I would charge nothing if it weren’t for my sense of stewardship. If I do not charge — at least, in this society — then they will infer that my craft is worth nothing. I agree, more or less. Art has no monetary value, as it is the most subjective of all. Tangentially, does that mean that only the most accessible of art is actually worth anything? For every person who loves DADA and DuChamp’s Fountain, there are an equal number, if not many more, detractors.

The artist is a not great creator—Duchamp went shopping at a plumbing store. The artwork is not a special object—it was mass-produced in a factory. The experience of art is not exciting and ennobling—at best it is puzzling and mostly leaves one with a sense of distaste. But over and above that, Duchamp did not select just any ready-made object to display. In selecting the urinal, his message was clear: Art is something you piss on.

Stephen Hicks

It is not universal that the Mona Lisa is a masterpiece, but the greater society has accepted it as true. Then, is critical analysis merely masturbation? How can anything have value in a society where value is determined by money?

My therapist wants to give me a prove-ectomy. He says that if I were not in the habit of having to prove worth, specifically my own, then happiness would be easier to come by. A carpenter charges time and materials, but the market sets those values. If we descend into granularity, we can see where certain materials cost a certain amount, but that is also due to profits from other companies. If a company provided free saws to lumber mills, and the government provided free land and labor for logging, knowing that in the end we all have paper and wood and homes, then… but, here we descend into communism. And we only have to wait before along comes Comrade Napoleon to exploit it all so he can sleep on sheets and drink milk all day.

But whence this greed? If we could tomorrow, establish this Marxist Utopia instantly, where no one had need for anything; if we could identify the outliers and give them the mental medicine they need to realize that their value is not to be found in a number or an expanse of holdings or the power they exert over others…

What else is there? Is there a point to life other than the proliferation of one’s own seed, one’s own legacy? Is it really true that the people in power are smart enough to know to keep the working classes down so that their power is unchallenged? Or are they merely products of a system set up by people who did know? I am suspicious of my own nostalgia that somehow people were more honorable in times past. At the very least, the corrupt had to take pains to conceal their deeds. Or was it ever thus?

I do not know from where this sense of honor springs, as I have been given no evidence but that humanity as a whole is a failed experiment.

I have to relieve myself, so I knock on the door of my dad’s house. He has finished a new remodel, with lofty ceilings and dark wood. The rustic quality of it all speaks to him and of him, but the restroom is occupied. I know there is another in the basement, so I venture there.

Surprisingly, the concrete is clean, the rooms tidy, but the toilet has no walls, just a shower curtain to conceal me while I do my business. I decide against it, and begin to appraise the basement instead. My dad is making his usual attempts to connect with me, and I am making my usual acquiescent responses. I affirm his work. I agree we spend too little time together. I try to be a good son.

In the house, somewhere nearby, I can sense my brother and sister socializing. When I wake up, I am filled with determination, if not purpose, to live my life well.