All the Lonelier for it

So one of the things that I anticipated as a problem when this year of nobuy began was that I would be lonely. Locked in my little enclave of homemade food and slowly greying clothing, it seemed there might not be a place for my friends in this barren landscape. This has proved somewhat true. I am not available in a commercial setting any more. Movies, drinks, dinners on the town, all out. If my friends want to see me, I am asking them to bend to my crazy whims and bake bread with me or go for a walk. This may be asking a lot. We are not accustomed to nobuy friendships. This will probably mean that I will not see my friends as much. But I will very likely see new people, in novel situations. And while I do not want to suggest that this is by any means an even trade, there is something valuable in reinvesting in and re-exploring my community. Sure, I attend our neighborhood association meetings now. They are free entertainment. I look for free films showing at the art museum. I'm going to the Unitarian church book group. While these low-budget, low thrill options are not how I want to spend all of my time, they are introducing me to people that I would have never met otherwise. And breaking out of my enclave into the bizarreness of Baltimore has been one of the most unanticipated delights of the nobuy.

As you might expect, the most difficult part of not-buying-it is explaining it to others. Both Sophie and I have remarked that it imposes drastic simplifications on our lives: options, like buying that cup of coffee, are removed before they can tantalize. But explaining why we would choose to eliminate unnecessary consumption when we don't have to, such conversations are delicate. On the one hand, you don't want to sound sanctimonious. People often think you are passing particular judgment on them. (This is an annoying feature of vegetarianism, too. Not liking meat or avoiding meat for health reasons are universally acceptable; deploring the meat industry, both for its cruelty to animals and for its environmental consequeces, provokes sharp responses from many people.) On the other hand, you don't want to sound like you're a raging consume-a-holic or deep in debt. Although Sophie and I are fairly frugal, these past three weeks have shown just how freely I spent money and how frequently I indulged little impulses. Perhaps the hardest part, though, is losing certain social possibilities: on Friday some friends were going to lunch at a restaurant I quite like, people I hadn't seen in a while and want to see more frequently, and I had to turn down the offer due to not-buying-it.

I have come to rely on an analogy to fasting when I try to explain what Sophie and I are up to. One doesn't fast to save money on groceries or to shame others (of course, people go on hunger strikes, but this is not the only or predominant role for fasting). One fasts to grapple with one's embodiedness, to face hunger, to remind oneself that food isn't just about pleasure, to put oneself in communion with others who are hungry, to break up the soul's stagnancy under the routine and repetition of daily life, and to turn one's thoughts elsewhere. We're fasting the will to consume American-style, we're rediscovering that the ordinary routines aren't all there is, we're opening another region of the soul. It is both nice and misguided when friends offer to buy something for us, like a cup of coffee: you don't offer a fasting person food because they're not eating out of choice, not stinginess.

Some ramblings on food

We are now finishing the third week of our foray into unconsumerism, and things seem alright, no hints of dissension in the ranks, no slips, no secret trips to malls or Costco or restaurants. Then again, the year is still young, and my coworkers brought in donuts every day this week. It doesn't take much strength to resist the siren call of the cafeteria when donuts of every dough, icing, sprinkles, and filling are available. What I fear most is that, after the gluttony of the holidays, when I ate tasty foods nearly every day at work, it will be tough in the afternoons when my stomach yearns for some cake or cookies and a fresh cup of coffee. I fear I'll look into my crumpled lunch bag, see only a healthy granola bar, and then my will will weaken. Food, I fear, will undo my resolve. For me at least shopping of the usual variety has never played a significant role in my daily life or functioned as a means of self-reward or indulgence. But I do love my coffee shops, my restaurants, my impulse purchases of chips or cake.

So far, though, I have enjoyed preparing lunches and dinners, which has surprised me. As an occasional activity, cooking pleased me; as a regular duty, it had never enticed me. What i appreciate about "not buying it" is that it has forced my hand on many issues. No longer do I wish I'd cooked and berate myself for simply buying my lunch at work. I just put together something in the morning and hold on till I get home. (My lunches are usually rather pathetic, whatever I can see quickly in the fridge, but I have high hopes as the year progresses. My breakfasts are improving now that we shop more regularly: omelets several days this week.) Likewise, when I stroll down the hall at work past the vending machine, I no longer muse on whether to buy Doritos "just this once." It's not an option. This not-buying-it resolution actually removes my usual challenges and stumbling blocks because where there was a decision to be made before, there is no possibility to tantalize me. Sophie and I have imposed a constraint on our lives that removes a whole range of possibilities, but in turn it is allowing me to explore possibilities that I had essentially blindered myself to and protecting me from choices that I tended to "lose."

The Consumer Fast Begins

And surprisingly it feels good and not overly restricitve or self-denying. Not buying things streamlines choices and decisions. Should I stop at the bucks for coffee? NO Should I go into the bookstore and look for good magazines? NO Do I need another pair of black pants for work? NO It means no fuss and no weighing of options. The only option that I have when it comes to buying things is no. And that has been surprisingly liberating.

The Beginning of the End

Hello family und friends. Here we are at the beginning of 2007, a good year, an auspicious year. As things often go at 321 I have come up with a crazy project and convinced Owen to join me in it. In this year, this 2007, we will not buy anything unnecessary. Essentially meaning we will buy food, preferably at a cheapie grocery store or a marche, and nothing else. We are doing this to investigate what consumption means to us, watch how our capitalist impulses change and shift, and to spend more time on things that we care about (we'll get back to you when we find out what those things are with all of our newly freed time). We'll write when the spirit of revelation strikes. Here we go into the wild blue yonder of no consumption.

Happy New Year!
Sophwen