Remember when I used to warn you about impending vacations and return dates? Yeah, neither do I.
We’ll continue conversing this week. There are things to discuss, believe me–it’s what naturally happens after the silences, though the recent trend suggests only more silence will follow. But tonight is not a good night to start things up again, because I just finished writing an angry missive to my property management “specialists.”
There are distinctions to be made with angry words and angry tones. You’ve got the tone employed here on some nights, imperious and ridiculous, and then there’s real dissatisfaction, where every adjective is meticulously crafted to pound the everloving shit out of the recipient.
There’s a giant ledger somewhere, I imagine, that tracks exactly how much raw intelligence may be doled out to the populace at any given time, and it’s a finite commodity. For every Albert Einstein, for every Oscar Wilde, there is counterbalance, namely us. And yet, I don’t believe you need to invent the theory of relamativity or wear a pair of fucking pantaloons to at least appear smart. Santa and my favorite argumentation prof were both right, I believe: all you need is a list, specifically a list of thoughts. Small soapboxes. Conversations.
I’m not referring to a physical list here, mind you, because anybody who’s obsessive enough to chronicle the day’s discussions probably also needs to touch every tile in the house before going to bed. It’s more a mental list, one crafted to stick because the items on it genuinely interest you. Firming up the list is simply a matter of having thought that thought before, or having had that conversation previously, and how and when you employ this list–uniquely, ironically, unexpectedly–is what impresses.
Reading has slyly yoked itself to my time recently. I’m intent on making the most of it. The last good run was a Pulitzer prizewinner binge, a productive streak cut short by American Pastoral, and lately there’s been an aborted attempt at The Rules of Work, followed by honest-to-goodness completion of The Alchemist. Well, no more. No more self-help books. No more profound books. I’m done with books that theorize greatness or parabolize it. I want it recounted to me, and to this end I’d like to pick up Mark Twain’s autobiography. There’s challenge #1: actually going to the bookstore.
Ping-pong, according to my earliest memories of the game, was always a contest of strength, an extended dialogue to see who could whack the ball over the net the hardest. Turns out this is how actual tennis operates, at least in my current competency, and table tennis really involves a small plastic ball only a few grams heavy. In place of power is a quick exchange, a complex round of rock-paper-scissors where finesse stews–marinates, even, during the good rallies–in pure focus until someone caves.
I’ve been thinking about the why behind this self-betterment plan recently because there are other, seemingly wiser ways to spend my free time, such as going out and meeting some people. But the need to pretend to want more acquaintances is overridden by the desire to produce something great, which here defined is product that outlives its maker to affect others in a profound way.
That’s the plan: to do all these different things, hopefully well, until the creative spark takes hold and sets things in motion. The list itself has changed, of course, and I can tell you straightaway cooking something substantive isn’t going to happen anytime soon. These days, dinner à la carte is oatmeal, cooked in what the Germans call Der Microwaven. The full course includes another Germanic delicacy, Die Poppen Cornung, pioneered by German luminary Orville Redenbacher.