Swamp Drainage for the Soul: How I Decluttered My Mind with Mental Bentō Boxes and Mortal Storytelling

Let’s wade into the swamp of my inbox, where newsletters multiply like amphibians after rain.

These anachronistic toads (yes, that’s what I’m calling pundits now) sit on their digital lily pads, croaking the same recycled crises with all the urgency of a broken smoke alarm.

You know them well: the Doomsday Toad prophesying tomorrow’s Euro collapse (still waiting), the Savior Toad preaching blockchain salvation ( ignoring Rwanda’s analogue genocide archives), while in the Congo, the real human drama is unfolding, and the Nostalgia Toad yearning for 1993 (conveniently forgetting the screech of dial-up internet).

Observing this jungle of diverse catcalling via fonts and vernacular, I suddenly realized that although I am always drawn to geopolitics, I will be no more than an amateur observer.

Meanwhile, I am the master and architect of my own life and legacy.

The thoughts have prompted me to reflect on yesterday’s post and the perspective I’ve developed to view and interpret the family dynamics of the past, a process I call “relativization.” (Spanglish?) (perhaps trivialize)

This reflection leads me to wonder: Will it take another 45 years to acquire the lens of “translation” to perceive the true absurdity and superficiality of these last two decades, especially considering the inherent nature of life itself?

As this magical Wheeler typing before you, I’ve realized we’re all amateur anthropologists of our chaos (read life).

Why wait until death to document the beautiful absurdity?

Each moment and each experience is a part of our unique story.

Be your living archive and give your life the significance it deserves.

Record family drama mid-chaos.

Transform sibling rivalries into geopolitical metaphors.  

Malinowski’s diaries proved messy beats manicured every time.

As my vodka-enlightened Aunt Scarlett used to hiss: “If you keep listening to frogs, you’ll miss the herons.”

Or, as Steiner might have subtweeted: “Ghosts don’t plant gardens.”

Your swamp-drain toolkit is simple: Filter ruthlessly (auto-delete anything containing “synergy” or “unprecedented”), alchemize wisely (sex, sunset, savoury food and yonder sounds), and remember – you can’t sell awareness when your brain is a landfill.

So curate your swamp, pack your mental Bentō, and write your mythos mid-sentence.

History’s watching – and trust me, she’s got better Wi-Fi than you think.

Blah, blah, blah, Mortal, blah.

May harmony find you,

Irena Phaedra