In Plight of the
Cultural Mutant I did my best to lay out the absurdities of 25-odd years of
my striving for some sort of identifiable professional career. All of my
attempts proved to be fruitless. That is, they did not “gather food.” In
retrospect, it was almost hysterically funny to look back at it—a true
tragi-comedy.
My best years, my younger days (in which I felt the full hormonal
vigor of testosterone coursing through my veins) have waned, or are waning. I lost the race; failed; won
the booby prize in life. Now I am becoming an ancient, looking back wistfully
at “wasted days and wasted nights.” But I won’t cry “sour grapes.” No way!
My quixotic naiveté was, in a sense, priceless, as I went about
the world always sensing that I was on a mission. And I doubted seriously
whether many out there could ever understand this man’s quest. My life, even to
me, was more like “organized confusion.” That is, serendipity played a major role. It
was life as a series of accidents,
as I bumbled onto this or that road, idea, aspiration, endeavor.
I followed thread after thread, clue upon clue; all for
naught, it seemed. But wait! Perhaps not. After all, wasn’t my failure, my “career identity disorder,”
a “badge of honor” to proudly display before a world that was and remains
hopelessly corrupt? I said so in my book. Wasn’t, therefore, my not-having-succeeded-in-this-corrupt-world a clear sign I had retained my moral compass; that I was
“not of the body”—wherein the body was
essentially “the Beast” (The System,
comprised of Establishment and anti-Establishment)? Maybe so.
But I never used a compass, at least not overtly. (He who
lives a life of “serendipitous synchronicities” never really cares for gadgets.)
Rather, I relied on some sort of intuitive sensibility while charging at wind
mill after wind mill. No, I was no Don Quixote. I was more like Quixote’s jackass—being
ridden by an unruly consciousness—and my dulled lance was my own inborn
incredulity about the true nature of the world.
How hilarious! It only took me over 50 years to begin to “see
through it all”; to start getting acquainted with the true nature of the world
around and within me. (But, as I said, by this time I am a bit more beat-up than I wish to be.)
Imagining dragons to slay isn’t all that profitable in the
money-sense. It builds character, in a masochistic way. Still, you (the cultural
mutant) are viewed as being more and more eccentric—or angry—for not giving up fighting
that good fight, though what that “good
fight” is, is anybody’s guess. It’s best left as a testament to the guy who
penned it and made it a famous phrase—St. Paul.
No, I’ve just been a big galoot who idiotically “followed
his bliss,” who got side-tracked for about a half-century by cultural Marxist
infiltrators in the guise of…well, it’s best not to go there as I already (and
colorfully) did so in my afore-mentioned book. Suffice it to say that I was
blinded by the GLARE while being entranced by shadows on the wall of Plato’s
cave.
Now, in my near-crumbling condition, I see the light of the real
Sun. It is shining down and warming my face. And it makes me feel good again—not
too unlike how I once felt in much younger days: suffused with optimism, light,
and directed enthusiasm.
This dragon slayer jackass continues-on in his plight, however, forever looking for
that just-right-yet-elusive job. These days I apply for writing and editing jobs. But if I
get any response at all from applications and resumes, what keeps
bouncing back to me, subliminally, is this: you're too old, too weird (or as I put it, "Dragon slayers need not apply").
Maybe this little thought essay will win the day—land me
that perfect-fit job—the job I have been working my way up to all of my life!
HA! Don’t count on it, ya jackass!
Then again, “hope springs eternal.”
Surely, somewhere, there’s a like-minded weird task specialist that would appreciate where I’m coming from. I
sort of found it once in Santa Fe, in the person of politico/writer/editor/Orthodox
priest Jack Flynn, who hired me to write for him and even started a brand new
newsletter to feature my writing. Too bad that was yet another temporary
assignment in yet another wave of go-nowhere positions. But, not to wallow in
bitterness and despondency over “what might have been…”
If, as I have stated on more than one occasion, I am doomed to live the scruffy life of a
bluesman, then let it be. I hereby enthusiastically embrace my fate (while
wishing I could do just a little bit better than that).
Yes, I brag sometimes that “I have worn many hats and walked
in many worlds.” I like saying that about myself. I like putting that kind of
spin onto my crazy life. What it really means is that I remain on a mission; yes, I cling
tenaciously to my mission. After all, when I was a kid that was what I wanted
to be: a missionary. Much later I even created an alter ego along those lines
that I called Bro. Gumpus, O4B (the “Order of the 4 Bs”—Bewildered, Befuddled,
Betwixt, and Between). Maybe my mission is to continue on as a bumbler-through-life,
as a well-intentioned fellow doing good works, fighting the good fight.
Until I get gainfully re-employed (and NOT under-employed yet again) I will do my
best to enjoy these days, creatively loafing my time away. I dream of a job/ a
big job/ in an office/ with miles and miles of carpeting/ with windows and a view/
yeah/ a big view of the cityscape below/ and me/ doing important work/ that
little-big-work I was born to do.
Some might say, “Dream on, jackass. Dream on…” But I say that I will
forge on, doing what I do best, praying for a better me, in a better world,
filled with people doing better things with themselves, in the true spirit of
what it really means to be a human being.
