All things considered, it seems quite appropriate that Elvis shook off this mortal coil while his ever-expanding ass was parked upon the commode.
I hope that’s where I meet my end, too. Such an ignominious farewell is exactly what I deserve after half a century of horrible eating habits. A few years ago, while I was clawing my way through the vast works of Alan Watts, I came across an essay he had written about proper food preparation and enjoyment. He treated this subject with just as much reverence and significance as he ever did Zen Buddhism and the erudite skewering of monotheism. I hate to admit it, but he made a lot of sense. Food is life and my lazy disinterest in its origins, preparation and appreciation might say something about my relative lack of interest in life itself. Palettes just don’t come as unrefined as the one I’ve used and abused for almost 50 years.
It may also be related to my lack of a passionate counterpoint to those who take issue with my stated theories. What you interpret as niceness is much closer to ambivalence. As I indicated several times on my recent blog of perpetual silliness, perpetual silliness is one of the few things I still value. I enjoyed putting intellectualism to bed for a while and just letting loose with laughable nonsense far more than I ever enjoyed attempting to influence people’s views along philosophical, spiritual or political lines. In other words, it was attempting to make a very significant point and that point was that I no longer consider myself to be someone in possession of a worthwhile point. What’s left after that? These little bite-sized moments of philosophizing that you’ve afforded me here are more than enough to satisfy what residual curiosity I have left.
Everyone talks shit — all day, every day. That includes such luminaries as Nietzsche and Einstein and Freud and Gandhi. They all talked shit — all day, every day. Those who talk, talk shit.
Thus, a shrug of the shoulders is my new silent mantra.
That’s how I see it. Others who have known me for a while interpret it quite differently. They’ve told me so. I think these deliciously despondent lyrics about lost talent and lost passion from the late, great Neil Peart perfectly illustrate the unnecessarily melodramatic view of what’s happening to Mudge at (almost) 50:
The dancer slows her frantic pace in pain and desperation,
Her aching limbs and downcast face aglow with perspiration.
Stiff as wire, her lungs on fire with just the briefest pause —
The flooding through her memory, the echoes of old applause
She limps across the floor and closes her bedroom door.
The writer stares with glassy eyes, defies the empty page,
His beard is white, his face is lined and streaked with tears of rage.
Thirty years ago, how the words would flow with passion and precision,
But now his mind is dark and dulled by sickness and indecision.
And he stares out the kitchen door where the sun will rise no more.
Some are born to move the world, to live their fantasies,
but most of us just dream about the things we’d like to be
Sadder still to watch it die than never to have known it —
For you, the blind who once could see, the bell tolls for thee.
Heart-wrenching stuff, but I can’t really relate. In order to fall from grace, one must once have been in a state of grace and I’m not even sure what that would mean.
So here’s my closing query for you: does engaging in philosophy and linguistic erudition still give you a sense of pride or accomplishment? And if your answer is anything shy of a resounding “yes!”, do you find the composition of fiction to be a way to still scratch an itch, as it were, without getting bogged down in argumentative semantics?
Unwashed & Somewhat Slightly Dazed,
‘Mudge
Anonymole - apocryphal agitators 
I’m glad you enjoy perpetual silliness because that’s kind of my wheelhouse. Glad you’re only Slightly Dazed, and not Confused:-)
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” -just letting loose with laughable nonsense far more than I ever enjoyed attempting to influence people’s views along philosophical, spiritual or political lines.” Good call. Because – “It’s just a matter of not relentlessly chasing useless thoughts.”
And that end bit doesn’t require a yes for the first part. I’ll tell you atruth about creativity that if researched will prove out – the only reason is for that tone high. I’ll pull a Tom being Tom here and let a couple of old blues guys ‘splain that for you thinkers
https://philh52.wordpress.com/2017/01/25/evan-who/
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Elvis shaking off his mortal coil, horrible eating habits and proper food preparation.
That reminds me of an old 45 record I came across in a second hand store after being forced to shoot a junk yard dog and pass an old Aurora model of King Kong to get to it.
When playing the 45 on my old record player (with cob webs growing on it) Elvis sang,
“Ever since my diet left me,
I found a new place to dwell
Down at the end of Botulism Street
The Heartburn Hotel…”
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Great poem too!
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Those were the lyrics to “Losing It” by Rush.
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Speaking of Alan Watts, he had a very promiscuous life, filled with only the youngest and most beautiful divas…which is perhaps one reason to wax philosophical. If you’ve never experienced this unintended consequence of waxing poetic, perhaps you have, indeed, missed the point.
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Oh, I’m well acquainted with that unintended consequence. Without that (and alcohol and drugs and rebellious young women who wanted to choose a mate based on how vehemently their parents would disapprove), I’d probably be a 50 year old virgin. But now that I understand my own fathomless reservoir of b.s., it’s nearly impossible for me to employ it in the pursuit of nookie or undeserved adoration. In other words, I’ve inadvertently but very publicly called myself out and now it’s too late to put the cat back in the bag. Do you know any women who are looking for a middle aged, conversation-averse stoner slacker that spends his days watching iCarly marathons in his studio apartment? If so, perhaps marriage is still in my future.
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LOL! Perhaps there exists a female in need of in-home care that would find your traits quite attractive…
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Hi Crud Mud,
Bravisimo! You have touched upon a number of very human issues, things the contemplative mind embraces, but to what extent and degree? I think I am similar to you…in answering, it depends upon my mood and what the other options might be. So I would say that yes, I can go from total absurdity to “profound” ideas in a moments notice, understanding, as you imply, that nobody knows nothing. Including, I guess, both you and me. One point…it would appear that meditation can obviate all of the downer ideas we face. I enjoy it. Sex is also good to momentarily forget our poor state. As for me, I have had what I would call an “extreme experiential life”. I have now landed in Mexico and find myself in the middle of the Narco Wars. It is reminding me more and more of my old professional life. WTF, the more we run, the faster we get there, right? But where is where? Looking inside is only partially helpful, but that is really all we have. Again, nice piece of writing. Thanks. Duke
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Thanks, Duke. Meditation has much to do with the development of my comparative lack of concern these days about things that used to drive me nuts. I’ve lately ditched formal meditation in favor of a more meditative waking mindset. For some reason, in my efforts to keep these posts at least moderately entertaining, it seems that I utilize language that makes what I’m saying seem somewhat depressing, but that’s not an accurate account of where I’m at. Dispensing (for the most part) of my former habit of performing pointless mental gymnastics is the most liberating thing I’ve ever done for myself and I accomplished it, quite literally, by doing nothing at all. But I’d wager that this can also be true of those who live a more experiential life than I. It’s just a matter of not relentlessly chasing useless thoughts.
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