My Life as an Idiot

My life as an idiot.  It's one of those classic topics of literature, of humanity figuring itself out, employed by Dostoevsky, Chekhov, Erofeyev, Twain, Sherwood Anderson, Joyce, Eliot, Kundera, Carver, Dickens, Melville, and certainly as any, Faulkner.  It is not about the classic portrayal of the psychological Id, the basic dark drives, hunger, libido, this form of idiot, but rather the plain conscious being within whose 'foolproof built-in bullshit detector' (Hemingway term) unfortunately is uncannily able to sense the Ego when it kicks in (whether or not he or she is always immune to its biddings.)  One engaged in a 'sinful' life is just as able, if not more so, to eventually receive the insight upon this separate constant dialog of thought in our heads.

Let's face it.  In a social setting, it's quite easy to go along with certain behavior.  The musicians are sitting down at the end of the night with dinner in front of them, talking shop, drinking wine, discussing Joe Henderson and the old One Step Down jazz club.  The idiot, out of curiosity, sits down to follow their talk, inevitably joining in with a glass of wine, and thereby enabling the musicians to sit around and talk longer, say about how the up and coming generation can not play, refuses to learn even, a simple melody, of the kind from Broadway show popular tunes, that Jazz has mined and made further relevant.  Coltrane, the bassist, a tribal elder, tells us, yeah, man, knew his songbook, knew the tunes prior to launching his own style, a background in all his work.

And so the barman, instead of cleaning up and going home, watching himself all along, after he's eaten his little turkey sandwich after all have left, becomes a poor man's Johnny Carson or Charlie Rose, hanging out, talking, and of course, sipping away.  He gets home late, restless, and it would have better for him if he hadn't had that first sip which led to the second, and before you know it, it's getting light out as he cleans up dishes from angel hair rice pasta and the cat's food.

He reflects after taking the cat in for her prednisone shot (for treating rectal cancer) that the only place such an 'idiot' as he could really honestly found any form of employment is in the restaurants, as a barman.  He gets to continue being an idiot.  He gets to listen to the tales people tell over dinner and wine, like the truly nice couple who ordered a lovely Chassagne Montrachet, minerally, lemony, citrus peel, underlying almond to go with their soft shell crab (the local delicacy) and sea scallops on ginger broccoli mousse, insisting I have a sip.  Talk of an uncle who worked with Julia Child on Mastering the Art of French Cooking (as I happened to mention it as the lady studied our menu), talk of mountain climbing in South America and free climbing in Alaska, and a great book recommendation of an A. Alvarez, Feeding the Rat, as well as a bit of a chat about the Tour de France and how cycling clears the head.  And being a hick, well, he naturally finds a lot of things fairly impressive.

The idiot is not the self-absorbed turned-into-a-baby of basic wants and needs.  The idiot, in this case, is probably close to what Eckhart Tolle describes as a thread running through spirituality, the basic aware sensitive consciousness, the contentment of the being, without all that Ego form and structure and dysfunctional thinking placed upon it.

So, what happens to the idiot?  What does he or she see?  How are experiences treated as they come and go?  What to do with the profound realization, from Hamlet, who else?, that 'nothing is but thinking makes it so,' that also comes from the Zen master who refuses to be pressed into a reaction such as 'oh, this is good,' or 'oh, this is bad.'

Okay, try living that way.  What effect does that have on, say, a relationship?  How does one avoid the label of being 'uncommitted' or 'uncaring' or 'oblivious'?  Got to make a choice in life, right, or choices are made for you, right?  And if you are so full of observations of peace and beauty, how can you share them beyond that peaceful 'dumb' smile on your face and a bit of gurgling?  BECAUSE THIS IS LIFE!  You have to find a way to be relevant and active and a doer on the side of the good, and not end up old and alone.  What bloody good does bar tending do the world?  More harm than good, probably.

But the idiot:  Yes, I had to go through all that.  It was part of a larger spiritual awakening I was simply meant to have, that had been preordained through basically everything I ever did, every one of my seemingly obtuse reactions and actions to things.  And now I try to find a home for it, wishing to be something along the lines of a Zen Master, I mean, though, along with Aloysha, I am really just an idiot, one who doesn't fit in anywhere, but for the company of strange old monk elders like Father Zossima who take everything in stride and don't mind hanging out with the humblest of rustic brethren.

To me, the idiot, far too much emphasis seems to be placed on winning.  Take a sport, let's say, a beautiful thing, to see the strength, the grace of motion in the great cyclist, the swimmer, the gymnast.  Yes, competition brings out some crazy abilities and feats that might not otherwise come about.  The crowd roars, the victor raises arms, gets to listen to her national anthem and go back to her country wearing a gold medal.  And then there's someone who was the big favorite who did not win, say by one one-hundredth of a second, goes home with, yeah, the eternal silver, the story "I came in second."  I feel for everyone really, the ridiculousness of this word 'losing,' for all were able to participate in the beautiful idyllic of a sport, an Olympic sport.  All made it happen taking their bodies around a track as best they could as nature made them able to, some short, some tall, some with broad chests, some less so.

And this is why Emily Dickinson's words hold something worth notice:  "Not one of all the purple host, who took the flag today, can tell the meaning so clear of victory, as he, upon whose vanquished ears the distant strains of triumph break agonized and clear." I imagine there is some reconciliation within the poem, beyond these lines, an ultimate realization, a knowledge the vanquished's insight turns into a comprehension of the dignity of participating in life.

Big Oil Companies, though, they are not inclined to stop and think in such a way as to consider themselves part of the idyll of nature and interplay.  They are about winning, about growth, about power, about money.  And so subconsciously they support the subtle suggestion that winning is everything, and that coming second is for losers and you don't want to be a loser, forget it, that's all there is to it.  So they proceed, with complete recklessness, endangering every sentient being there is in this world, in complete failure to understand the web and pattern of all that exists within the Universe, including all its great laws and ways.

Rep. Darrell Issa, a fine example of the contemporary Republican, complains of the great lacking of the truly rich in Congress, I hear, to go off on a tangent.  No, not just the millionaires, no, they're small fry who don't get it.  He wants his peers to be of the really rich, those, like, close to half a billion in wealth.  The truly rich, that's who should be in Congress, for the good of the country, good for a government 'of the people, by the people, and for the people.'  Ah, the supreme self-confidence of the wealthy, the winners in our little economic game.  The Ego attracts other egos, attracts and makes necessary the egotistical, a spiral of inflation on up to fantastic hubris, the great arrogance of 'knowing' something, lording it over 'lesser people,' when really no one knows anything finally more than anyone else (except those who have gone through sickness and dying before us by the current measure of logical time.)

And the idiot?  What does he attract, but the simple basic truths of life,  to which the ego must say, 'oh, yuck, I can't stand that,' not wanting the hands to get dirty with such lowly stuff as not having your own private jet.

It's all very interesting.  And acting, almost, at least, like physical law.  Maybe you have to become a complete idiot in order to figure all that out, trusting as it were, the hands of God.

The largest truths about the Universe, I would offer, are tender, peaceful, gentle things, able to be held by such as us, the whole birth into matter in all its complexity much like the simple fresh opening of a flower to the sun's rays.  Go forth with that gentle spirit in mind, and maybe you can't go too far wrong.