Funkishness

One of the big questions to be answered in the whole living-life thing is how to escape our own heads. More precisely, how do we propel ourselves beyond funkishness and rut-think to something better?

My one-word answer to this: Books.
In addition to an impressive library of literature and things I generally wouldn't mind a reality TV-show crew filming, I have a host of books -- some of which look very much like the disparaged "self-help" category -- that I keep hidden in shelves on the bedroom. Some are of a spiritual ilk. Some speak of art. More than a few address various kinds of anxieties, for it was my luck to be born and/or bred into a nervous nature, though I pass for confident.

Once, in period of sustained desperation, I ordered (I almost always ORDER these kinds of books, rarely buy them at the bookstore) a tome on handling difficult bosses.

That one didn't work.

Mostly, though, they do. Mostly, just reading them, and often skipping the steps that require me to, say, act things out by myself in a kind of weird, self-helpy Gestalt, provides a bungee-cord snap back to some form of good cheer and optimism. And with the art books, it's often a trip to that lovely land called inspiration.

So, wondering: What kind of funkishness plagues you, and what do you do about it?