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

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