Too long – don’t bother or read with caution . . . . .
Today started like many others before; get up, go to work, put in some time and effort until noon, then stop for lunch. Because I felt generous with myself, I decided to have pizza and beer – not an especially notable meal., but a simple pleasure that I indulge myself in occasionally as I skim through the internet, looking for entertainment and distraction.
As usual, I ate too much pizza (the whole thing), and, upon reflection, drank too much beer (stopped counting and caring after three), and somehow my searches turned away from the usual political catastrophes to some favorited videos that invoked a more heartfelt response.
Although anger and frustration can be oddly satisfying emotions, much like artificial sweeteners can fool you into thinking you are getting real sugary satisfaction, nothing can beat ‘warm and fuzzy’ after a few beers and a full belly. At that point, you’re kind of primed for it, you know?
It was at this point that the random, and in retrospect, an ill-advised thought came to mind, “Hey, I haven’t read Kipling’s ‘If’ in awhile, and gee, that was always a good piece of thought-provoking prose, maybe I should peruse it again.” The mentally unspoken ending of that thought was “ . . and experience once again how anything you have ever written is a mere muddy shadow compared to the musings of a master of words.”
So, I made the mistake of ‘Binging’ Kipling’s ‘If’ (Googling being so conformist), and read it slowly out loud.
As usual, I found it difficult to get all the way through without some emotional distress. I know that many people do not find the piece as moving and profound as I, but with the freeing effects of the carbohydrates and alcohol coursing through my veins, I found it more so than usual.
I have always thought that no man, no man or woman, could truly measure up to the standards set forth in the poem. Lofty and noble as they are, they seem a human impossibility, a goal beyond the reach of mere blood and bone, mind and soul. Such a person would be more god-like than any of the fictional gods we pretend to follow and emulate.
I know that I could not measure up, on my best day, with my best intentions, with all the love and support I ever had standing at my back and shouting encouragement.
Perhaps this is why this work moves me so. So few words, yet … so much. Four paragraphs, a handful of words, a volume of thought and emotion.
Looking for more such, I search for James Thurber and settle on a page of random quotes. Sprinkled about the page are a few sentences, a few written thoughts, many of which are so perfectly written, so artfully constructed that they make the best of anything I have written look like stains on a sheet of white paper. His words, printed naked and without context on the page, speak more than a whole day of discourse and discussion in my life.
Damn these people for putting to paper the thoughts and feelings that I share with them but cannot articulate without seeming and feeling an utter fool. I am angry with them for conveying so perfectly, so succinctly feelings I cannot even gather up for a moment of time, cannot express in a language I have used all my life. I am angry with myself, even knowing that I am comparing myself to the shoulders I wish to stand upon.
I am no writer; I do what I do for my own amusement. Still, it irks me that I cannot come up with a turd that can be polished up to pass as a halfway decent counterfeit to the writings I admire. If I could compose a quote that a knowledgeable reader would comment “That sounds like something Thurber would say”, part of me would be pleased beyond all reason and I would be encouraged to write more.
Retirement is coming up soon and I will have more time to think and contemplate and put thoughts to word and paper. Maybe then the words will come . . . the right words, in the right order, with the right feeling embedded in their composition.
Please excuse the ramblings of a somewhat inebriated poster. I will try to do better in the future