LETTERS from CRICKET SONG

Missive the Fourth

Our Antidote

To Introspection.

Throw a Pot of Clay

At the Melancholy of Meditation.

Dateline: Tuesday, August 1, 2000, at 1900 hours CDT.

Conway, Arkansas, USA

By D. Ebenezer Baldwin Bowles

CornDancer & Company

There comes a point where we stop to consider: What am I going to do with this life that is given to me?

Stalled in the sargasso self, I become the island no one can be.

I waver, alone in a crowd. I am isolated in an existential gloom. I am fallen to mawkish introspection.

Some of us stop here to watch self-reflections on the eddies at the end of a bend in the river. Some of us. I don't presume to speak for all of you. The smug, universal We is a trait of post-modern American political liberalism I won't embrace.

All the same, I know I'm not alone. There is a We -- a We that, in this instance, stands accused of not knowing where next to go. It is a pensive state inspired by too little vigor. Those of you others, the incessant doers, who are prone to busy days and constant nights, who thrive on activity and physical movement: Seldom do you come here. You are not of this particular We. Nonetheless, you are welcome to pause here and see how the other half lives.

I do fight against the tendency toward introspection. It can consume too many precious hours, misdirect my limited store of raw energy into fuzzy blocks of lost time. I'd just as soon take some kind of action and be done with the private examination.

Guilt of Days Done, Fear of the Uncertain Morrows

Why not throw a pot of clay on the wheel, or walk the hounds, instead of ruminating about presumed status and role? Why not drive to the city and dine on enchilada and lobster, tour the gallery, instead of mulling over yesterday's disappointments, the guilt of days done and gone? I should dial a long-distance number, telephone a networked associate, ask her about the newest development at the office or byway. Instead, I speculate on the uncertain pitfalls of the morrow.

At the very least I ought to redirect my mind's flow away from self, away from wistful reflection, and into productive thought.

"First, the vision -- then the physical shape to express it. First, the thought -- then the purposeful motion down the straight line of a single track to a chosen goal," Ayn Rand's Dagny Taggart said [Atlas Shrugged]. "Could one have meaning without the other? Wasn't it evil to wish without moving -- or to move without aim? Whose malevolence was it that crept through the world, struggling to break the two apart and set them against each other?"

To think! Yes. I ought to grapple with the issues and ideas of the day. That will put my purpose into motion.

What about the social movements championed by youthful protesters on the streets of Philadelphia? Isn't there a Republican political convention in progress there? Why are the dissidents so fired-up about multi-national trade agreements, corporate misbehavior, the tennis-shoe sweat shops beyond the national border? Are the riot police restless, do they need somewhere to go?

"It was a vague but wide-spread discontent caused by the disordered circumstances of individuals, but resulting in a general impression that there was something radically wrong in the administration of Government," John C. Calhoun, James Monroe's Secretary of War, wrote in 1820.

Poetry, Nap Rooms, the Big Knives of Terrorists

I should go forth from this melancholy of meditation so that I might explore radical alternatives to status quo institutions. Name them, examine them, quote the major players.

Is it really true that staff reporters at a major Silicon Valley newspaper begin their weekly staff meeting by reading poetry? If you were on staff, which poem would you choose?

W H O G O E S W I T H F E R G U S ?

Who will go drive with Fergus now,

And pierce the deep wood's woven shade,

And dance upon the level shore?

Young man, lift up your russet brow,

And lift your tender eyelids, maid,

And brood on hopes and fear no more.

And no more turn aside and brood

Upon love's bitter mystery;

For Fergus rules the brazen cars,

And rules the shadows of the wood,

And the white breast of the dim sea

And all dishevelled wandering stars.

1892 William Butler Yeats

Question marks are everywhere. They're strewn about the page like so many small pieces of timber. If I don't watch it, I will soon be regretful, dreary, sad.

I've heard that certain dot.coms in San Jose and Boston have an employee nap room just down the hall from the executive board room. Isn't this one such radical alternative worthy of my investigation?

Is it a fact that Greens terrorists in San Francisco have identified sports utility vehicles as the enemy of urban harmony and go, stealthily through the night (with big knives), to slash the tires of Explorers, Jimmys, and Tahoes? I hear it said that the techno yuppies who drive them also wear the police report of their slashed Michelins or Goodyears as a conversational badge of honor! I could go there and report, first hand, on the latest slashing.

What about innovative new products -- I can test and review them, can't I? A mixed litter of microchip-driven robotic dogs are poised to leap from their baskets just in time for Christmas. I'm sure there must be thousands of shoppers who would be interested in their comparative merits. How much would it cost to acquire my samples?

What about compelling juxtapositions of opposites, or the latest hot debate about government's next intrusion into the lives of certain classes of men. I could toy with the paradox, review the book, attend the rally.

Let me leap from this dreamy interior into the proving ground and the arena, the academy and the marketplace. Isn't that where the action is? Isn't that where they brew elixirs to chase away such ponderous moments as these?

Yes. The answer! I will place my order today, have the elixir delivered, overnight express, direct from the metropolis to the front door of my hermitage. Then I can drink deeply of the antidote to my mawkish self absorption. O ye of suspect circumspection, don't tell me otherwise. I think the answer is the great world beyond.

WATCH FOR MISSIVE THE FIFTH in your mailbox just before midnight on Friday, August 4, 2000. If you don't want any of my missives, let me know. I'll remove you from the subscription list immediately upon demand. On the other hand, if you want to add a friend or associate to the list, please forward their name and email address to ebenezer@corndancer.com

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