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Musings of a mystic, sort of

by DAVID DOYLE, C&J 371

If pressed, I couldn’t tell you what makes a painting by Cezanne different from one by Picasso. If you asked me to give reasons why World War II was simply just a continuation of World War I, as some have argued, my answer would leave much to be desired. Ask me the core difference between Judaism and Christianity, you’d get a funny look. All this is to say that—82 credit hours and counting—my liberal arts education has made little impression on my intellect. Stay with me. This isn’t an introduction to my ineptitude. At least, not entirely.

Each concept in our world provides an alternative. Shall we try a couple of examples? War/peace. Rich/poor. Happy/sad….Increasing the level of difficulty, perhaps just a tad: tech-savvy/tech-stupid. You get the point.

Okay, back to me. I am a man who cares about his relationship to the world. This stands in contrast to the man who labors to know what’s going on in it.

This is a column written to, and for, people who engage the world, but can’t bring themselves to be consumed by it. You want specifics, huh? Some clarity? Well, the best thing I can do is offer a few words—not from the sponsor.

Alan Watts, the now dead, eastern-philosophizing, Zen-meditating, Tao-adhering, vodka swilling man of letters, once said that it is not enough to know the facts of life. What must be uncovered, according to Mr. Watts, is the fact. The fact of existence, if you will.

Now, don’t go mistaking me for a mystic or a meditator—or a drunk! I know barley more about revered Asian mystical states than I know about fine art. I ain’t going there. But it is paramount that you understand my column is atypical. If you worship a Maureen Dowd or a Frank Rich, this is not going to please (it might even hurt). If you and your 2.5 kids piled into your 2007 Toyota Sequoia, and headed over to the Cineplex to watch Disney’s latest talking insect, followed by a trip to Applebee’s, it might be wise for you to keep tuning into those predictable lifelines.

If, on the other hand, you and a friend got together over a 12-pack of Budweiser and discussed the finer points of old Guided By Voices records; argued with anybody whether Henry Miller and Charles Bukowski wrote anything worth repeating to women (or just men); played basketball in the rain; rode bikes to the bowling alley; mused about the inanities of the modern media. I got news for you: You might just find something worthwhile about these ravings.

Of course, you are welcome to hang around this (wrong?) side of the tracks, even if you don’t know much about independent rock n’ roll, under appreciated writers, or movies that aren’t playing at the gargantuaplex. Drinking cheap beer isn’t requisite, either.

Come back next week. It’s not every day you get the chance to play with that troubled kid down the street. You know the one. Nine out of ten PTA moms would certainly disapprove of him.

November 30, 2007

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