Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Monday, June 30, 2014

Chasing the High


Gettin’ high…nothing like it. Soaring in the ethereal, goodbye gravity. We all do it. Thin air or thin ice, both are rarified. Does a tick on the back of an elephant think it’s an Emperor?

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Face it; we’re but creatures of the earth. Dust born, dust bound. Born with feet of clay. Restless feet, running to and fro, stirring up the common dust of the ground. Feet chase things. They flee things. Gravity magnetizes them. Permanent escape is impossible.

A Delta flight to China from Atlanta is about eighteen hours. Mostly daylight. At 35,000 feet, it’s easy to feel ‘above it all.’ An illusion, of course. Below, an interminable horizon vanishes in a mirage of distant blue haze. Life creeps by on a silent stage.

Miniature specks are buildings that dot the landscape. Vehicles are snails, crawling in slow motion. Humans are not visible. The planet appears peaceful and uninhabited, delusionary, deceptive.

Roads appear as tiny lines scrawled on the landscape by a maniacal artist. They wander aimlessly across an expansive vista. Their purpose at this height is irrelevant. They meander, crisscross haphazardly. Like many of life’s dreams, they often bleed off into dead ends. Philosophy comes easy at high altitudes.

Green circles, the size of quarters, appear as pop art. They affirm the fact that man’s assignment is earthly toil. Life in the sky is a temporary stay of execution. Wisdom from the Farmer’s Almanac is that a man should never stand taller than a corn stalk. Ambition will not take this advice. Farm populations continue to diminish. Humility is not in the nature of humans.

Long hours pass. The ‘high’ becomes mellow. The silver bird casts a slow shadow as it crosses a placid sea. Eight miles per minute confers no sense of speed. Martinis and inflight movies make up the sensation. It’s easy to ponder great thoughts while paying lip service to the world’s unsolved problems.

But beneath lays a vast wet world of chaos. Only the giant jet engines spare the horror of being plunged into the darkness below. In the sea, humans are not at the top of the food chain.

We seek thrills. The chemically-infused frenzy accompanying World Cup 2014 has elevated nationalism to astronomical highs. Even my hometown newspaper joined in, galvanizing the locals. It reported that Colquitt, Georgia was recognized on TV for having the tallest corn silo mural in the world. Lofty intoxications come in many ways.

Business careers sometimes begin small. Mine began in an office the size of a closet. One desk, one phone, two chairs and three partners. In this chummy atmosphere, we learned compromise by the things we suffered. But we moved on...bigger things, higher palaces, wider nets. O, the dreams of youth. Self-induced prestige is a slippery siren.

One of my dreams spent three years occupying a suite near the pinnacle of a high rise office building. It was a short stint. Life’s different at that height. Elevators sped me higher. I shook the dust off my feet.

Visions of grandeur were my companions. But when the giant engines failed, the closet office returned. Easy money is not good fuel. It’s a short walk from the penthouse to the outhouse. Such are the fantasies of youth! Humility is a hard pill to swallow, and morning-after hangovers are brutal.

Ways and means for getting high are many. What are our chemicals of choice? Power, Politics, Cash? Maybe Mansions, Education, Career? How about Sports, Alcohol, Opiates? Red Bull, Golf, Travel? It’s all there, even the ‘reflected glory’ produced by mirrors and rubbing elbows with politicians. A veritable buffet of choices, ripe for picking.

My high of choice was running. One mile wasn’t enough, so two, then four, then eight. It kept doubling until it reached fifty. The two titanium hip replacements ended that madness.

My son is a rock climber. I tried it once. Once. Without a rope I climbed a forty-foot boulder in North Georgia. Easy ascent, defying death or maiming. The summit was exhilarating, for about one minute. Getting down, well, good thing a pine tree was within reach…ever tried sliding down a skinny pine?

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History will write our life story. Perhaps it’ll include a footnote describing our summits or the means of reaching them. But it’s certain to record the footsteps we’re leaving on the ground.

Emerson once wrote, “On thin ice, speed is our best friend.” I hope our jet engines don’t fail…. Hypoxia is no respecter of persons.

Bud Hearn
June 30, 2014

Friday, June 20, 2014

My Favorite Disease


We have many strange ways of looking at life. But viewing it through the lens of a Disease? C’mon, now, how weird is this? But why not? Broadens perspective.

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Nobody needs to tell us about Diseases. We know. There are at last count over 100,000 maladies that conspire to make us relatives of Job.

No Disease for the moment seems pleasant, but grievous. But after one has had its fun and exercised us to the breaking point, it produces the peaceful fruit of Patience. Temporarily, of course. The other 99,999 are waiting for a turn to escort us through the exit doors of life.

Something’s always out to get us. Diseases waft through the air, creep along the earth, fall from the sky. They colonize Bibles in cancer wards; ride the words we speak, dance on drills of dentists. Microbes copulate on door knobs, and scabies sleep on toilet seats. Safety is a joke.

Disease is a dark subject. Walker Percy, the existential novelist, once said: “Tuberculosis was the best disease I ever had. If I hadn’t had it, I might be a second-rate shrink practicing in Birmingham.” It caused me to pause and ask myself, “What benefit has a Disease been to me?”

A cursory review of the gruesome list produced over sixty ‘Diseases’ that had attempted, but so far had failed, to deep six me. The beginning of sorrows for me was Diaper Rash. This horrible ailment is the progenitor to jock itch, which mounted a vicious attack later in the football locker room.

Itching is a common autonomous ailment. Like breathing. It’s prevalent among baseball players. Lengthy studies now reveal that the proximate cause of such Itching is Bad Breath emanating from a gum-filled wad of snuff. A wonderful way to stand in a field doing little and earning much.

My brother extols the virtues of Athlete’s Foot, that itchy fungus between the toes of athletes. His excuse is weak, since athletics was a distant second to sailing. He derived constant joy by constantly rubbing a sock between his toes for hours. A smile never left his face.

High school brought for me a terminal case of Acne. Girls fled my presence in horror. At the 50th reunion, I discovered the merits of zits. In retrospect, they saved me from a matrimonial curse worse than death. Score a big one for Acne.

They kept coming. Post Nasal Drip led to Nail Biting, which opens the door to a multitude of demons. Imagine where the fingers of children have been. I credit this proclivity to Tooth Decay and possibly Warts. It’s a sure way to become a social pariah and stir up PTSD. They have no redeeming value.

Somehow ADHD found me. I rather enjoyed the experience. It afforded wonderful opportunities to focus on everything except the issue at hand. Which is a great way of dodging most household duties. “Honey, my ADHD is acting up today.”

As life moved on, Arthritis, Bursitis and Joint Pain moved in. These tenants don’t come bearing gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. Possibly cases of Advil. But these uninvited guests are unparalleled blessings to orthopedic surgeons. Look at it this way: like tithing, your money’s going for a good cause.

Hospitals are a danger to health. It’s where Shingles found me. Shingles made me smile, albeit more like a pit-bull grimace. But at least my teeth showed. It made Nail Biting want to return. The only remedial value of Shingles is that you have to walk around naked…a blessing to you, a curse to others.

It’d be instructive to delve into the details of the advantages of Intestinal Irregularities, Heart Conditions and Acid Reflux. Rosacea removal is child’s play in comparison. But one word is sufficient: ghastly! The reward for survival is bragging rights. Nothing more.

With the proliferation of Disease, taken collectively, it’s no small miracle that we prisoners of the earth live at all. Surely there’s redemptive value stored away in the infirmities. Unfortunately my lens only found one I could actually point to, outside of the moral value of being more sympathetic for humankind.

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My favorite Disease is still in incubator stage. But I’m nursing it with care, hoping soon for a perfectly developed and functional case of Narcissistic Personality Disorder. You’re probably doing the same.


Bud Hearn
June 20, 2014




Friday, June 13, 2014

I Didn't See It


Seeing is a relative term. It depends on the viewer’s perspective. Men have selective eyesight. It’s a prime cause of consternation between the sexes.

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It was a small oak leaf. Insignificant. Once green, now brown. It lay curled in a fetal position in the crevice of the shoe moulding at the back door.

I saw it every time I passed through the door. Maybe others noticed it as well. No one mentioned it. Somehow it had escaped the broom and vacuum.

It lay there alone for days. I watched as it withered daily. Its former glory days were past. What remained was a shriveled chrysalis. Given an option, it would have asked to return to nature. No one obliged. Nor me. Last Tuesday it finally gave up the Ghost.

How did it end up in this alien place? Possibly the dog shook it from its fur. Perhaps it rode in clinging to the sole of a shoe. Who knows, maybe the wind blew it in. It doesn’t matter. Life is full of inexplicable events. The wind blows leaves and lives at will.

I took pity on the leaf and condescended to pick it up. It’s not easy to evade the innate laziness flesh is heir to. Big of me, for sure, a grandstanding gesture worthy of praise. There was no applause. Men pat themselves on the back for tasks far more miniscule.

Like changing a roll of toilet tissue. In our home it’s called ‘last-square roulette’…a game where the loser has no option but to replace it. Men stubbornly shun such challenges.

Men have an intense fear of unloading dishwashers. This is an intrinsic survival instinct. No man can repatriate kitchen utensils to the satisfaction of a woman.

Anyway, I committed the leaf to the whim of the summer breeze. Angels observed it. That very moment they opened the Books of Life. Scrolling down the list my name popped up, located just above Hitler, Adolf and Hun, Attila The.

The deed was duly noted with a gold star under the “Inasmuch-as-you-have-done-this” category. It was placed opposite the previous entry heading, “Neglect-of-garbage-can-overload.” Justice grinds slowly, but it grinds exceedingly small.

The leaf’s last days were spent living among dust mites. An inhospitable environment…lonely, irrelevant, ignored, out of place and neglected. Abandonment is a wretched condition. No wonder the leaf whistled “Free at last” as its cortege floated away on the breeze.

Outside, the trees ballooned with leaves. Of what value is one? Little, perhaps. But give the leaf its due…its short life had a purpose. It added a small but meaningful measure to the health of the tree. Leaves, like hairs on our heads, are numbered. Trees are diminished in the loss of just one. Yet, for a season the leaf was part of something bigger than itself.

Feeling superior after the benevolent gesture, I said to my wife, “Honey, remember that dead leaf by the door? I restored it to nature.”

Really? About time.” she said. “I wondered how long it would take you. I put it there a week ago. It was a test to see if you were blind or just lazy. You proved both points.”

Women do these things. They’re creative in conducting covert experiments to test men. Frequent tests reduce men’s over-inflated egos to manageable sizes, and correct faulty myopic eyesight.

In the mid-19th century, the theory of phrenology became a popular delusion. Probably created by women, it sought to discover ‘Why’ men were stupid. It was a system of “reading” the shape of men’s skulls to determine a cause of the ‘Big Head’ syndrome.

Women were disappointed when they discovered a man’s brain simply revolves around sports, cars, sex, beer and food. They knew that already. Like most hoaxes, the hoopla ran its course when the moola ran out.

Blind neglect is arrogance. It’s inbred in the nature of men. Why? Because to act requires a decision. Men tend to defer decisions, assuming someone else will get rid of the annoyance. It’s a weak conclusion, I know. Do you have a better one?

**********

Today I saw a silent cardboard beggar. He sat among the detritus of an interstate overpass. His sign read, “Lost job. Please help.” I drove on by.

The chill of a sudden breeze blew through my open window. I remembered the leaf. How can I ever say with a straight face, “I didn’t see it.”

Bud Hearn
June 13, 2014

Friday, June 6, 2014

Life Off the Page...an Allegory


Wouldn’t you, if you could? Step out of your own story, to lean against a doorway of the Five & Dime, sipping your coffee, your life, somewhere far behind you, all its heat and toil but a tale resting in the hands of a stranger, the sidewalk ahead wet and glistening.” Danusha Lameris

**********

Farley Watmore is a fictional character. He was created, not made, the brain-child of a best-selling but secluded author who shuns publicity and hasn’t been seen for some time.

The author’s tableau spans the spectrum of humanity…the sordid, the refined; prostitutes, murderers, sadists, priests, sailors, merchants and politicians. His will breathes life into them. His moving fingers write their text; his words define their destiny.

They emerge from ethereal nothingness and enter a world of chance. Imaginary characters have a short but predestined life. They each arrive with a purpose, changeable at the author’s whim.

The scenes are set in a complex grid. Characters move autonomously. But actually, their ways are predetermined. Like a computer micro-chip, the author designs an elaborate integrated circuitry board. Paths crisscross, diverge, co-mingle and part. Farley lives inside such a grid.

He’s cultured, intelligent and lacks nothing but experiential knowledge of his senses. He has a vicarious knowledge of passion, but no identity with it. His world is crafted by a stranger. He lives within the pages of a book that’s being born. His fate is undetermined, left up to the writer’s caprice.

Yet something is stirring in Farley. A restless feeling raps at his door, a shadow hangs around his garden gate. The author contemplates what’s next. Farley squirms, indecisive, confused. It’s all part of the ever-moving script.

Outside rain trickles down the window. Drops drip from the pink roses beneath. Farley wants to feel the rain, to smell the pink roses, to hear the mockingbird’s song, to see the sun sparkle on oak leaves and to hear the wind in the pines. He wants to experience life.

He yearns for freedom from the prison of the computer screen. The writer knows this and lets him step off of page 386 and begin his journey into the world of senses.

Outside he hears noise, strange, disconsolate sounds. Machines, airplanes, angry voices. A dog barks, a baby cries. Babble. A distant siren wails. An emerging emotion grips him. His intellect defines it as fear. He retreats into the safety of the computer. His courage is shaken.


Farley considers the tradeoff…safety for freedom, subjective feeling to objective experiences. He’s conflicted. Questions. Decisions. A foot in, a foot out? The life of another’s design? Or one devised by independent will?

He reprimands the author for releasing him without warning, with no script. He feels anger. He hates the silence. He wants to choose his way. He steps back out of the page as night falls.

The stars shine, the moon sits atop the pines. His eyes fill with the mystery of the heavens. He hears music for the first time. He feels happy. He follows the sound down a quiet sidewalk. A wedding. He goes in. Mirth is everywhere. He feels joy, a novel emotion. His fears subside.

A woman approaches him with champagne. His nerves react. Computer women don’t create this sensation, he thinks. He’s nervous, unsure of himself.

The champagne is cold, sweet. Her perfume excites his senses, her body tingles his nerves. They dance. He holds her close, feels the heat of her body, the sensuous curvature of her spine. Her blonde hair lies on his shoulder, tickles his ear. Her fingers touch his head; her breath is hot on his neck. Her lips are red and luscious. He feels heaven.

Then the music abruptly stops. The woman pulls away. She walks off, disappearing into the crowd. He feels lonely. His heart aches. He feels abandoned, depressed.

But soon the music begins again. Garth sings, “Yes my life is better left to chance, I could have missed the pain but then I’d have had to miss the dance.”

**********

She stands there, a radiant toothy smile, calls his name. He grins. Strangers no more. Magic happens. Farley stepped off the page and found life waiting for him.

Wouldn’t you, if you could?”


Bud Hearn
June 6, 2014