Definition of a Cynic:
“A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.”
-- Oscar Wilde 1854-1900: “Lady
Windermere’s Fan” (1892)
It was a kind of old snow man built in his heart. And yes, he may have thought he wanted to melt it, but that was about it -- a thought. It wasn’t something others don’t experience, but his outcome was different.
Introspection is tough when you keep seeing a mirror. That’s what we do, and it can’t be helped. You see what you know and know what you see. And there’s the rub. The real question is, given that we’re trapped within the limits of our own knowledge and experience, how does change happen? For some it doesn’t. Miserable dispositions see unhappiness as the norm. They rue healthy companionship, dog the manger, and rain on every parade. So why doesn’t it matter how others perceive them? Does creating an atmosphere of confused unease and mutual trepidation provide them their favorite kind of attention? Were those times they experienced feelings of kindness, compassion, and empathy insufficient to their spiritual growth?
He probably got glimpses of these qualities in women he had known; but just as probably wondered why they had left. At least he wasn’t public in his misanthropy. He lived in solitude, his cynicism directed at a past no one could remember. The hermetic life will do that: make time a frozen synchrony where memory locks into a particular period or moment un-moored from all chronology and context. When you live in a vacuum, the way it was is the way it is. Reality is a tableau of how you last remember it, not a dynamic condition of change and flux. The person, place, or atmosphere in or of a situation you experienced, say, five years ago, remains the same in your mind. In some ways – contrary to the idea that having no access to a computer or the internet should spark creativity – the recluse suffers from a profound lack of imagination. They can’t fathom change. They live on a road with unmarked signs, having no way to know where others have been or are going. Still, better they stay to themselves than infect others with their ill will and negativity.
It’s understandable, then, that someone like this can’t understand when something greater stands before them. The degradation of time blinds the recluse to their mortality. And thus they can’t imagine the characters in their drama as finite entities. For instance, the idea that a certain endeavor might have nothing to do with the implementation or display of certain skills or talents is beyond their ken. They are incapable of sacrificing their principles to a higher purpose aside from their own concerns. Reclusion from social contact is really nothing more than selfishness in isolation, which is arguably a good thing. But even the highest principles, when applied to a morally flawed decision, are worthless at best, and tragic at worst.
At present, our circle of musical friends has been contemplating a reunion of sorts to bolster a sick friend’s spirits. Which is a good thing. There is a fundamental communication problem, however, that may nix this idea: one of five of us can’t digest the idea that this is NOT, I repeat, NOT, a musical project.
Odd, you say. Not really. Our performance would be about the teary gleam in an old friend’s eye at knowing he got the boys back together one last time; about watching Bill DeBroux work the crowd into a salubrious lather, sure to carry Mcgee into the realm of the cancer free; about seeing Mingay, the ultimate transplant man, smile knowingly at seeing the awe and wonder of the crowd as they marvel at the Olympian costumes he’s provided the Walrus dancers; about seeing Davey Perkins regaling Floyd Maki with Left Banke stories of Blue Cheer and chocolate mescaline; about seeing that zany Cathy dancing the middle of the floor; about Lunker, and Dunker, and Billy Mallette; about the Base and Gwinner’s coming in to share memories of Mr. Sherry, Hare Pye, and the Modeltowners; about Robin Labby’s excitement at helping us; about Cashmere Funk showing off for Julie, Cathy, Kay, and Bonni; about Roger, Screech, Jose, and Joe coming off a roof and heading for the soiree; about spear-fishing for Pike and Suckers with Mr. Skip; and last but not least, hearing all the loyal Walri fans singing “Murder in My Heart for the Judge” while Hogan fights off those nay-sayers who said it couldn’t be done. Who cares about second-hand smoke, volume, and other small concerns, in the face of performing a task conducive to the material, physical and spiritual benefit of those we hold near and dear to us?
While past Walrus projects have put music at their center, this performance would not be about the music; it would, rather, be about the social conditions that made Walrus happen: the people in and around the historical context our group arose from.
Love - Randy
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