Dispassionate Passion

Conventional wisdom is obsessed with promoting the message that we mere mortals should strive for a constant state of good-natured enthusiasm, of deep passion, of a love and appreciation for each second of our fleeting lives. The expectation is that we should arise each morning excited about the day to come, love what we do, be proud of our accomplishments and station in life no matter if we are kings, queens, septic-tank specialists or assistant hog-whackers at the local hog-whacking plant.

And therein lies the problem with conventional wisdom. It’s only a tiny bit wise, a smidgen accurate. The baseline concept might be acceptable, but the memo is distorted and perverted by the omnipresent editing of at least four or five of the seven deadly sins. The original message– probably something in the vein of “Try and enjoy yourself lest you end up depressed as hell” ends of being a 45-page diatribe on the need to accumulate, to win, to best the competition, to fashion yourself as the prettiest, most handsome, charming, ambitious, extroverted and financially successful doofus in the cul-de-sac.

Cul-de-sac, by the way, roughly means “butt of the bag” in French. It’s the bottom. It’s a dead-end street. It’s a semi-circle tour down Groundhog Day Drive that always heads back to the place you were before.

I view conventional wisdom’s approach to living with much the same definition. Enthusiasm, passion and a love of every second of life cannot be manufactured. You either have this mindset or you don’t. I think such a path is determined by our internal makeup and our individual dealings in life, by heredity, environment, time and experience. The status quo would have you pretend that all is constantly rosy and bright, that even the clouds puffing from a high-sulphur coal plant have a silver lining. It tells you to think and act as if life is a hit sitcom replete with glorious endings and the type of wild, intrinsic celebration of existence that occurs every time you purchase a new car, mimic the hairstyle of a celebrity, slam down a Budweiser or douse your epidermis with Axe body spray.

This is a crock of crap, the large, economy bottle, now available in your grocer’s freezer for the low, low price of self-delusion.

Do not misunderstand. I am not saying that pragmatic pessimism is better than hopeful optimism. Some people really do enjoy life for it’s own sake (but even they are not without times of grief and sadness). It’s obviously better to be delighted than despondent. There’s no doubt that looking for the good results in a much more pleasant existence than digging through the muck, holding the bad high above your head, and proclaiming for all the world to hear “See, I told you it sucked.”

What I am saying is that conventional wisdom’s daily bulletin is largely tainted by media messages, by an infinite barrage of salesmen and shysters who would convince you that happiness can be purchased. It is reinforced by peer pressure arising from that segment of society at large (and it’s one hell of a big segment) that has swallowed such a deceptive hunk of glittery bait. Misery does love company, and some of the most miserable people I’ve ever known are those who never stop trying to convince both you and themselves that their lives are perfect.

I’m trying to recall if I’ve really ever experienced passion, ambition or enthusiasm. I’m sure I have – and I most certainly have felt and do feel love – but I don’t think I know the three former categories in the way that such qualities are usually defined. I’ve at times felt a strong desire to try something new, maybe an excitement over something creative or unexpected, but I don’t know that I could pinpoint any lifelong passion. There were moments . . . brief and passing moments . . . and then life returned to its normal pace.

For instance, most people think that, because I can semi-coherently string words together I must love writing. Nope. Sometimes I really like it, and sometimes the unplanned appearance of a novel phrase or a well-turned thought brings me joy and a massive endorphin rush. But . . . Love it?  Naaaahh . . . it’s usually just something I can do (and as any writer knows, we spend most of our time writing nonsense and trash in an attempt to pay the bills). Not a soul on earth would buy what I’m writing here . . . unless of course you want to send me money via the handy little “donation button,” which I will gladly accept since the mortgage is due and the dogs are hungry and I hate selling my plasma.

Passion is far too big a word for most of us. Oddly, the one area where I can claim anything akin to passion lies in a field that requires its absence. I am passionate about simplicity, about living my life with as much peace as is possible. The only ambition to which I truly aspire is sort of a calm and slow-walking bliss. This, of course, might be one of the most elusive states of being ever contemplated. It’s very likely within us all, there for the taking only so long as you try not to forcibly take it. 

At least for me, the only way to move closer to such a goal lies in solitude and thought, trying to shape my life (the day-to-day life) into something that requires little. Luckily I’ve never been cursed by the desire for material doo-dads or a high salary. The price for both, again for me, is far too great in terms of stress, tension, aggravation and displeasure. I would much prefer to simply sit in the chair, pet the dogs, read a book or look at shapes in the grain of a wooden door.

There is wisdom, and there is conventional wisdom. I’m pretty sure I lack the former, but at least I’m open to the possibility of learning what it is.

The latter I can do without . . . and gladly so.

----------

A Note From Ron . . . Passing The Hat 

Making a living as a hermit Hillbilly who writes stuff just ain't as easy as it used to be. If you like these columns, and are of such a mind, I'd surely appreciate it if you tossed me a buck or two. Just click on the "Donate" buttons scattered here and there (they handle either Paypal or credit cards). 

Winter of Discontent . . . Yada, Yada, Yada

The first snow of winter came with the scream of a banshee in heat. It arrived with all the diplomacy of an Amway salesman trained by the black-ops division of the Jehovah’s Witnesses. I hate uninvited guests, even if their appearance is as inevitable as yesterday’s dawn. Such barbarians darken my mood, raise my blood pressure and lead to the unbidden rise of impure thoughts of the most unpleasant kind.

However, I cannot truly harbor animosity at meteorological inevitability. It’s not like the weather is trying to sell me plastic containers with vacuum-tight lids or attempting to load me down with the last 27 issues of the Watchtower. I can sic my dogs on salesmen, tell the invading cretins I’m a Buddhist, heathen, Hun or a devout worshipper of easily peeled fruits. Hell . . . my present dogs–Jackie and Hugo– are not canines with a fondness for either cold or precipitation. These are not the pups of my past, those four-legged Montana fur wagons that achieved doggie ecstasy at 20 below. These guys are more civilized; they appreciate the brilliance inherent to soft beds, electric blankets and streaming Netflix.

That means the pups are far more intelligent than me. Crikey . . . 20 below in my mountain days was a thing of beauty and awe; I’ve been out fishing at Yellowstone in much colder weather than that. Somehow, when living in the way-up outback, four or five feet of snow in 24 hours is a source of laughter and joy. The humidity is almost non-existent, the wind just a whisper, the silence of the most deadly storm almost deafening. On the prairie, winter just sucks; it’s got all the tact and grace of the last drunk to leave the party.

But here I am, once again on the plowed-earth plains from which I originally sprouted. There are good reasons–all of which involve aging parents and the physical ravages of time–but a flatlander I am not. I can see for a couple of miles, whereas my eyes are attuned to seeing but 10 or 20 yards before being halted by an impenetrable fortress of forest. I sometimes look for distant peaks, only to realize that such things exist only far away and in the lands of my memory.

Funny . . . though it may sound that way I’m not really bitching about my locale or lot in life. Good God . . . compared to most people I’ve got it easy. Moreover, as I said before, the reasons for “coming home” are important and valid; I would have made the return from any locale. The fact of the matter is that my disaffected mood du jour is not so much with topography as it is with myself.  

Something’s missing. I’m just not sure what.

It’s not love . . . for I’ve got people that love me. It’s not companionship, for I’ve always been much more comfortable with a modified hermit existence, surrounding myself with critters, than breaking bed with the bipeds. It’s not money . . . even though my bank account is skinnier than Karen Carpenter’s waistline and I’m just about too poor to pay attention. I worry about money, but I don’t care about having more than just enough to cover the necessities. I’m a simple sort of idiot.

I think, maybe, the squeal in my mental cogs is rooted in the absence of creativity. There’s a certain sense of ennui that sets in when I’m not doing something weird or inventive or inventively weird. Such a state makes me surly and lazy . . . or perhaps I should say more surly and lazy than usual. I need to feel like I’m thinking thoughts of substance, thoughts that allow me to laugh at myself, thoughts that have no relation to the mundane, banal, prosaic or quotidian (pick an adjective . . . any adjective).

So here I am again . . . scribbling words for no reason other than for the sheer pleasure of putting words to paper (or screen . . . as the case may be) and kick-starting my mind into a state that doesn’t involve bitching about a lack of decent writing jobs or an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Netflix really is my friend).

Some of you have been reading me for frickin’ years . . . hell . . . for a couple decades. To others my gastric upchuck of garbled expression and tortured idiom is a whole new gig. Such being the case . . . let me tell you what this blog is going to be about.

A:  I’ll be yammering about damn near anything that pops into my head. We may talk philosophy. We may talk guitars. We may talk deep-frying. We may talk dogs.

B: We won’t be talking politics. Yeah . . . I know. Some of you read me back in the days when I was a fancy-pants political analyst. Sorry . . . those are lands in which I no longer travel. Bores the hell out of me . . . and I view active participation in politics as just an unimaginative form of mental masturbation for megalomaniacs, ninnies with a messiah complex, and criminals who are afraid of getting shot/stabbed/sent to the type of Big House where they’ll end up spooning with a roomie who refers to them as Shirley or Susie.

C: I’ll probably be more stupid than wise, and if history is any indication, the more I write the more stupid I become. That’s a good thing, because I’m funny when I’m stupid. When I start making myself laugh then I’ll know I’m on the right track to achieving the sort of stupid enlightenment that is my definition of nirvana (not the version with Cobain). After all . . . one of the few indisputable laws of nature is that “If you want to be amused, you best learn to amuse yourself.”

D:  I’ll probably only plug crap I’m selling . . . like guitars and dulcimers . . . every chance I get. I’ll probably only hit you up for donations every four or five minutes.

I imagine I’ll update this page at least once a week. Could be more . . . doubt it will be less. So . . . I’m asking ya’ll to do me a favor or two.

If you would be so kind, please repost a link to my posts whenever the mood strikes. It’s a lot more fun to write/make fun of stuff if you’ve got an audience. Send it to your friends, put it on Facebook or Twitter or wherever the hell people put such things these days.

I’d be pleased as punch if you become a subscriber or follower (there’s a button for such things somewhere on this page). Oh . . . and I do have this doohickey set up to accept comments. Feel free to write away. Hit the little friend (I recall that line from Scarface) button for Facebook if you're of a mind. 

Welcome . . . set a spell . . . kick your shoes off . . . yada, yada, yada.