Unpleasantly Jaded


I am unpleasantly jaded by the fools of the day. An oxymoron of sorts. To be jaded is to have lost a sense of sense, to be immune to disappointment. So perhaps I am more despondent than jaded.

These fools make loud noises all around me. I only have to dip into the daily media to hear their voices. The sounds are eerie reverberations from the near past, resurrected like some virus that will not die. There is the rattle of bigotry, the clannish absorption in self, the mania for make believe entities, the simple stupidity.

I am no longer surprised by ignorance. This country manufactures closed minds. It applauds the arrogant, the brutish, the venomous. It forgets simplicity and silence. More than ever, this place sounds like a confederacy of dunces, guided on by false heroes who know best how to lie, how to cunningly fabricate, how to embrace falsehood, how to elevate it to a mandate among fools.

It is astonishingly easy to bounce on the trampoline of rubber debate, to engage in arguments with fools, whose logic is glued to an unimaginative construct called God, and whose premise is the belief in difference. I could go mad in such debate. But I maddeningly thrust myself into an attempt, some movement to dislodge the fools’ hold, to point out false divisions, false heroes, the devil in difference.

Then I hear another set of echoes. Emerson comes forward. “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.”

Then more enchantingly, my friend Whitman, who invites me to look at the animals, “so placid and self contain’d…”

They do not sweat and whine about their condition.They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins.

They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,

Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things,

Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,

Not one is respectable or unhappy over the earth.

Yes, I could easily live with the animals. Often, I prefer them to humans. There is no debate. No devils. Just a beautiful logic in living.

I come to recognize the peril of engaging with fools. The fools’ voices and false heroes and ugly divisions are cyclic. As cyclic as the waves that churn sediment from the ocean floor, exposing the dregs to sunlight before dumping it again to the bottom. A kind of threshing. Cleansing. A momentary merging of the dross with the pure.
I cannot say that I will not fall to temptation, that I will not engage with fools. My own ego pushes me to pounce. But if I do, it will be to quicken the cycle, the cleaning, the eventual return to the quiet bottom.
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