People have long debated whether you have to be crazy to be a good writer / artist /musician. The short answer is, yes. Chances are, if you have the wherewithal to produce a work of true genius, you'll also end up lopping off an ear or stuffing your head in the oven. At the very least, you'll need to be a run-of-the-mill alcoholic, womanizer, narcissist or recluse. As much as we hate to admit it, living an upstanding life, striving to achieve your goals, being a productive member of society is boring. There are some exceptions. James Taylor seems to be living a nice, mundane life in Newton, MA. He's a good musician. Society can handle some moderate amount of pretty good music about being a friend (and I think even JT may have had a heroin-junkie period at some point). Martha Stewart would be considered an artist by some - a master of creating pretty things out of mundane objects. But, seriously, there is not one person in a single first world, TV-watching country that did not feel some minimal level of smug satisfaction watching that woman get hauled off to the can.
As I continue to read more about Buddhism, all of this becomes very problematic. If I start to take Buddhist principals to heart and become more calm and at one with the forces of nature, if I start treating all other beings with love and kindness and compassion and understanding, if I wander through each day taking deep, full breaths, a half smile on my face and an overall air of tranquility, what am I going to talk about with other people? Beauty and peace are all well and good. But, really, who wants to hear about that? Kibitzing about the twisted train wreck that is global humanity is one of the great pleasures in life. It's a fundamental building block of human DNA that dates back to the dawn of time. People can spend a little time contemplating the soothing elements of life. That’s nice. But it's discussion about idiots, douchebags, criminals, losers, scumbags, know-it-alls and morons that really gets the juices flowing. Spotlights on benders, murders, raves, falls-from-grace, scandals and affairs sell a lot more magazines than tales about being relaxed or having a productive day in the office.
So what's a guy to do who's trying, at the same time, to find some tranquility and have interesting things to write about? Maybe the solution is as simple as "everything in moderation." Including moderation. I haven't come across any yet, but there must be some Buddhist monks out there who spend, say, ten consecutive days meditating in silence and then every eleventh day just going ripshit crazy. Wander in the woods, write letters, polish up the sandals most days. And, once in a while, rage through town on a methamphetamine-fueled bender, go out drinking with a pack of high school kids, beat up a homeless guy, steal a hood ornament, break into someone's house, swim naked in their pool, crash a rental car, and spend the night at a sketchy motel with some dirty women they met at a dogfight.
All of this is an advance plea for help. If the Buddhism thing gets to be too much; if the next time you see me, I smile kindly, gently touch your shoulder and ask you a penetrating question; if I lose my cynicism and my junior high sense of humor; and if I stop writing about what a ridiculous bunch of imbeciles all human beings are, please give me a forceful smack in the ass and a cocktail. I could also use some updates about what's happening these days in underground, lunatic-fringe circles. I was never that cool of a guy - more of a tag along, jazz band clique type. I'm afraid my Brooks Brothers business-casual professional career hasn't helped much on that front. And I'm probably not nearly insane enough ever to become a great artist. So if you're a hipster, dope fiend, jetsetter or suicidal nutjob, send me a dispatch from the inside. I may find eternal bliss one day, but I'd still like to stay in touch.
As I continue to read more about Buddhism, all of this becomes very problematic. If I start to take Buddhist principals to heart and become more calm and at one with the forces of nature, if I start treating all other beings with love and kindness and compassion and understanding, if I wander through each day taking deep, full breaths, a half smile on my face and an overall air of tranquility, what am I going to talk about with other people? Beauty and peace are all well and good. But, really, who wants to hear about that? Kibitzing about the twisted train wreck that is global humanity is one of the great pleasures in life. It's a fundamental building block of human DNA that dates back to the dawn of time. People can spend a little time contemplating the soothing elements of life. That’s nice. But it's discussion about idiots, douchebags, criminals, losers, scumbags, know-it-alls and morons that really gets the juices flowing. Spotlights on benders, murders, raves, falls-from-grace, scandals and affairs sell a lot more magazines than tales about being relaxed or having a productive day in the office.
So what's a guy to do who's trying, at the same time, to find some tranquility and have interesting things to write about? Maybe the solution is as simple as "everything in moderation." Including moderation. I haven't come across any yet, but there must be some Buddhist monks out there who spend, say, ten consecutive days meditating in silence and then every eleventh day just going ripshit crazy. Wander in the woods, write letters, polish up the sandals most days. And, once in a while, rage through town on a methamphetamine-fueled bender, go out drinking with a pack of high school kids, beat up a homeless guy, steal a hood ornament, break into someone's house, swim naked in their pool, crash a rental car, and spend the night at a sketchy motel with some dirty women they met at a dogfight.
All of this is an advance plea for help. If the Buddhism thing gets to be too much; if the next time you see me, I smile kindly, gently touch your shoulder and ask you a penetrating question; if I lose my cynicism and my junior high sense of humor; and if I stop writing about what a ridiculous bunch of imbeciles all human beings are, please give me a forceful smack in the ass and a cocktail. I could also use some updates about what's happening these days in underground, lunatic-fringe circles. I was never that cool of a guy - more of a tag along, jazz band clique type. I'm afraid my Brooks Brothers business-casual professional career hasn't helped much on that front. And I'm probably not nearly insane enough ever to become a great artist. So if you're a hipster, dope fiend, jetsetter or suicidal nutjob, send me a dispatch from the inside. I may find eternal bliss one day, but I'd still like to stay in touch.
