A poet was once described by a critic as being 'effortlessly superior'. On telling this story, a priest I knew shrugged his shoulders and said with great mirth, 'well, isn't that the only kind of superiority worth having?!'
Atoms are made of 99.99 percent empty space, and we are made of atoms, so why do we have so little empty space in our lives? Maybe we should learn from the structure of the universe. What is life for, if we have no 'time to stand and stare'? Perhaps this is the requirement and the secret of genius. We grow up being taught to read, a very important element in our learning, but who teaches us not to read, but to day dream instead? We learn alot about the facts of the physical universe, but who is there to teach us to value the stars? We even learn that beauty can be measured in golden sections and fractal equations, but who will encourage us to stop and properly appreciate the beauty of the human form. Well, I suppose there is Oscar Wilde for one. We should learn by looking at the lilies of the valley and the birds of the air.
But we go about as if there is something great to do in life. We dress in ties and jackets, power suits and sensible shoes as if we are the ones in charge, or at least the 00.01 percent of us which isn't simply void. But what is there to be done? Survive, yes, thrive, preferably, but nothing really apart from being. We just have to consent to be. When we are lazy we recognise this great truth and let the goodness of not doing but simply being flood our minds. However, this is not as easy as you might think. Every time, I try to do nothing, I end up doing something. I sit, see, reflect, eat, watch tv. I always end up doing until in the end I realise it doesn't matter what it is I am doing, so long as I don't try to do it as much as possible. In this way, my thoughts come without self consciousness; I see the beauty of the tree, not of me; I see the existence of the other person.
We are so superior to the rest of creation we don't even have to try. The flowers and the birds are beautiful but they cannot see beauty. The truth is knowable but it cannot know. The moral life is good but it cannot live well. Only we can do these and we do them best when we don't even try. This is the lazy poetry of life, that its power is in weakness.
3 comments:
Wow. Great post, Mr. Stephen! (I call you Mr. Stephen as a funny old habit/joke) I so enjoy the fact that you and I have known/not known each other for years. In some ways, you are my oldest friend. (Except for Buster!) and my mother also enjoys your posts :)
You have obviously been reading some Wilde lately...or at least some of the aesthetes and decadents! There is poetry in laziness!
It's funny, you know? When I took the class on Oscar Wilde we read a short story of his where Americans were characterized as obsessed with productivity and practicality. Almost as if Wilde was fascinated by us...not really that he was making fun of us. But I really was thinking of this idea all through your post. I think Americans are so obsessed with being productive that we get freaked out and cheat on it and then cheating becomes our reality. We are so afraid of failure we don't even try. It's like being on a diet.
But I like the way you, my friend over the ocean, chose to look at laziness. The way Wilde and Pater did, the way all the greatest poets have. In my American culture, Emily Dickinson was labeled as insane simply because she recognized the beauty of the world so much so that she chose to become totally engrossed with it.
Maybe you are right. And maybe my mental illness is due only to be American. But I really don't think so. I think the question is more about whether or not one feels content with the laziness. Or with being busy. I find it really hard to feel content with anything. Maybe this is because I'm insane. Maybe because I'm artsy or maybe that's just the territory that goes along with being a writer. Who knows. The point is..if you are okay with the laziness then it's fine. If you are okay with being busy all the time then it's fine. But it's when you aren't ok...that's when something needs to change.
LOL. (sorry for using such internet lingo on your very distinguished blog)
I've decided that it is the art of being content...not the art of detachment...that characterizes Nirvana or true happiness.
Besides how do you explain Hamlet if Americans are the only crazy ones?
Hi Emily, thanks for getting back. I suppose that last question was rhetorical, as I didn't say that Americans were crazy at all, let alone the only crazy ones!
I'm glad you like the attitude I expressed, and it's not complete detachment either. I agree with your idea on the 'art of being content' as you say. It is the highest art, I think. But i certainly wouldn't suggest we can just make ourselves happy through choice, as Sartre does. I've known enough of life not to believe that. I guess I'm just saying so much is out of control, our response is possibly the only thing we have. Even this is not always free.
If I'm honest, there's propably more that a soupspoon of self defensive rationalisation in my praise of laziness. Most of my adult life has been spent vacillating between feeling strangely guilty for my possibly egotistical need to write, and my unease when not doing what I feel to be at least part of my vocation. Oscar Wilde was productive until he spent time with Bosey, when he wrote nothing and felt uneasy about it. So even our great friend felt the tension.
Thanks for considering me your absent friend and I'm glad I have a second reader in your mother! What is undoubted is that I really love to write this blog in such a way that brings a smile. If it does that, I'm happy.
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