[This bit has two very different
dedications: to my wife, who believes I am brilliant in spite of me.
And to the bozos, without whom my current ire would not exist].
Part of me is having trouble simply
focusing today; I have moods like this, and they seem to be more
frequent in the summer months than during any other time of the year.
The dead of winter presents its own problems, of course. The winter
wonderland is, after a point, not so wonderful. That's not to say
there isn't beauty to be found here in the Driftless Zone; there is a
lot beauty to be found in the rivers, streams, and lakes; around the
Mississippi River, the great compass and latitudinal divider of this
land called the United States. I call it that because any place I
have traveled I tend to map it in my mind from two distinct points –
the Mississippi River and the place I grew up, Bethel, Ohio. The
river is a fixed point in my mind... an embodiment of all the
romance, all the commerce, all the good and all the evil that goes on
within the borders of this country. Bethel is less fixed in my mind;
yes, it's the place I grew up, but other than that, it holds no real
nostalgia or affection. I don't hate the place as much as I used to;
but I don't really miss it much either; and I'm sure it can say the
same about me.
I have stories to write, and I will
write them. Articles for the paper. I enjoy my new role as a
freelance journalist primarily because it's the sort of job that
suits my temperament. I hate alarm clocks, I despise offices, and the
only routines I put any energy into are my own. Straight work –
that is, 9 to 5 (or 6-3:30, or 3:30 to 11:30) wage slavery – is
full of routine. Dull, dull routine. That most people grow accustomed
to routine doesn't make it any less vulgar.
As a freelance journalist, my schedule
is determined by the story; and it's true that the schedule can, at
times, be horribly predictable... politicians are hobgoblins for
their officiousness and OCD consistency when it comes to meetings.
Sometimes they meet simply because they have nothing better to do,
because they nothing else to justify their existence on Earth, and
because there's nothing worth watching on television. But dragging
myself to public meetings is nothing compared to dragging myself to
an office or a cubicle or an assembly line station. And yes, I've
done those, too. The horrors that people subject themselves to for a
paycheck are staggering when one begins to notice.
So why the problem focusing? I have
notes for three articles, all of which will get written this week. I
have notes for articles to come. This isn't the sort of occupation
that really allows for days without focus; it's always jumping ahead,
jumping ahead. I get one deadline down and the next is looming. And
because I'm freelance, when I don't write, I don't get paid. That's
the life of a hack, the life I've chosen. And I would not choose
another, except to get paid for the books and poetry I write. Sadly,
though, no one reads books, and only poets read poetry – and while
I am college educated, I lack the appropriate pedigree to be taken
seriously by academic journals. They like craft over style and
substance. Then there's a whole cadre of non-academic journals and
presses, but they prefer style over craft and substance. Editors are
a notorious lot, and few of them deserve the title – which is, of
course, why they have it. At least in journalism – another one of
those dying businesses, like education and DVD rental stores – I
get to see something of the life around me, put it into words –
some of them falling on the profoundly and purposely illiterate –
and get a little scratch to pay my penance for life in the aftermath
of the American Dream... rent, utilities, and the various bills one
is expected to pay is one is to be welcomed as an adult.
Sometimes the articles are less than
interesting, and it's difficult for me to move myself forward into
the writing. That's not so much the case today; two of them are good,
one a potential barn burner. The other is little more than a
re-editing of copiously written meeting minutes written by someone
else. So it's not really the content of the articles themselves that
are driving me to distraction.
But recently, I've been besieged by
bozos.
Or, to be more specific, I've been
preoccupied with them more lately. I've always known they were there.
I first noticed them when I was very young. Bozos always always seem
to have or presume to have power over other people. The sole purpose
bozos have for living, the occupation that justifies the precious
oxygen they use up, is to maintain to maintain this illusion of
control. They've built their entire lives on it, this illusion. This
illusion is the thing that gets bozos out of bed in the morning; they
feed off the compliments of others, they exist only if they are
recognized as “being in charge.” They live their lives thinking
only about how their obituaries will read. And in the process, they
actively work to destroy all that is good and noble in the world,
simply to maintain a ridiculous point of view... because they can't
suffer honesty, and they can't cope with their own fear and
mediocrity. Because fear breeds mediocrity, kids. That's as true as
true can get.
My problem with bozos has been that
they are not attacking me. When bozos attack me, I dispatch them
quickly, and without much thought. Life and energy are too precious
to spend on them, and I do not believe in wasting either of mine. But
lately, the bozos have been after my wife... one of the rare souls
who is good and true and noble in a world that has gone to hell. She
loves with her all, and she loves honestly, and she gives more of
herself than most people are able to give. And while some might think
me biased, keep in mind that I have, in my time, been in company of
saints, sinners, murderers and angels. I have met and continue to
meet the best minds of this generation. I have a basis for
comparisons, and I tell you all quite honestly, most … including
myself … don't measure up to her. I wake up every day knowing I
don't deserve her, and the days when I don't measure up in some sense
leave me feeling miserable. She is one of those rare people who loves
unconditionally. She puts all of herself into the things that matter
and into the things she cares about.
And then... and then... there are the
bozos. The mediocre middle-managers of the world. The forgotten and
disgraced (justifiably) idjits of history. I would name some of them,
but she would prefer that I not. The truth... another truth that is
as true as truth can be... is that she and I walk through the world
differently. I can only be myself when I am brutally honest, and
she... she knows how to temper her anger with love and with laughter.
She is peaceful by nature, whereas I am peaceful by choice. People
that meet her first are often surprised that she is married to me. I
have given up disabusing people of their ridiculous notions; the
only thing that matters is that the life she and I lead is not
defined by the shortcomings of others.
Fear leads to mediocrity.