Because You Never Asked

     (This essay was written somewhere around 1996, long before I had created this web site. Although the Internet has expanded this exercise in dubious philosophical pattering to a much larger audience, its basic message remains intact. Such whining and tasteless self-pity captures the essence of sour grapes in all its artistic glory.)

     Being that I am not in the mood to go back and count how many essays I've written up until now, I'll simply say there have been a lot of them. Except for an anemic smattering of relatives and friends, who seem to appreciate them but have little time, interest or aptitude in conveying their thoughts to me, anything else occupying the ecosystem of this planet has not read one word of this mounting slush of chicken soup philosophy. Remarkably enough, I not only enjoy doing this, but my unfortunate propensity for thought has made it a necessity. This uncontrollable mental meltdown cannot be considered a positive thing. It has alienated me to such an extent that I seem to have little desire for friendship, for social contact, for what others might simply call "fun". I'm tired of fun! Could anyone possibly envy a person like that?

     The surprising logic for one suffering such a condition is that they don't care if anyone envies them or not. All they want is for all you well adjusted types to understand them a bit. It drives me nuts when Disney and Burger King team up with their clever little Whopper-Hunchback doll conspiracies, nabbing all the little kiddies. Do you get it?

     Probably not. This eventually led to a great deal of weariness in attempting to verbally explain myself. In trying to ease my burden, I began writing these essays. It's like therapy without a shrink.

     As long as nobody is reading or projected to be reading this stuff, I might as well say that I've begun to have vague ruminations as to its positive qualities and think it's about time some expanded public had the opportunity to at least see if they like it better than "Dear Abby". I would not suggest this without the sincere belief --- and fully understanding the possibility of my unobjective self-delusion --- that these musings had reached a certain level of vendible merit, both from an entertainment and philosophical standpoint. My desperation in not having an audience leads me to postulate the following offer to any publishing types who might stumble upon this work: print up a few thousand copies of this stuff, with a nice cover, maybe a rakish picture of the author, a few words of praise for the "deeply insightful yet readable" content of the work --- you know, make it look like a real book --- and I will forego any remuneration.

     In today's "New World Order Global Economy", could there be any clearer sign of alienation than that?

     In having spent a good deal of time both reading and writing, I have, quite logically, developed a certain longing to be officially "consecrated" as a man of letters. I'm not saying it would be better than a ten-minute naked romp with Pamela Anderson, but it would thrill me to see a book of mine in a bookstore, on a library shelf, or even faded and mutilated at a flea market or yard sale. Such being the case, from time to time (is that an inadmissible cliché?), I've tried to make my work known to those lofty inquisitors responsible for such "consecration" --- manila envelopes, short but brilliant letters of introduction, copying machines --- only to be left here writing this sour grapes essay. In trying to rationalize this poetic failure, I've come to the following conclusions:

     In much the same way a major league baseball team develops its talent through its lower system of teams, "consecration" as a writer has a similar system that begins in "Academia". There seems to be two principle roads to "consecration", one being journalism and the other an intellectual vocation that permanently situates one in the academic environment in some teaching capacity. In both instances, the creation of written language becomes a routine part of one's life.   

     This fecund environment of intellectual cross-pollination is an ovulating nursery of literary and scholarly ambition. Such output is privy to the "inquisitors of consecration" who are the "scouts" in the infrastructure of the written word. It is an insulated world of ideas and creation with lines of communication that cross, re-cross, criss-cross, branch out and double back, forming a web of transmission that puts everyone inside it in contact with everyone else. It at least gives one a chance to be scrutinized.

     Not only do I have no problem with this Shangri-La of intellectual activity, I consider it well within the natural order of things. Is it not a reasonable way to find and develop the great masters of words and ideas? But for those of us who have never been within this funnel of intellectual-literary activity, "consecration" becomes a daunting, if not impossible task.

     The Spanish language has an excellent word that could be used to describe talented people who find "consecration" outside the usual paths of development: "un espontaneo", or spontaneous one. In English we might say a "natural" or perhaps a "noble savage", meaning someone who comes out of nowhere, without much formal training and dazzles us with raw talent.

     My all time favorite in this category is Fernando Valenzuela, the great Mexican baseball player who went from pitching on rock pile fields in the Sonoran desert to the glamour of Dodger Stadium in one gigantic step. Another classic "espontaneo" is the now immortal golfer, Lee Trevino, who found his way to stardom outside the usual country club maternity ward of golfing success.

     But athletes have an advantage with regard to this kind of "consecration" because what they do is not open to subjective criticism. Their work is mathematically verifiable. If Fernando could get someone out, if Trevino could put the ball in the hole, the debate was over and fully remunerated acceptance became a reality. In the world of ideas and letters, talent is not so obviously measured. Everyone has an "opinion" that can never be mathematically justified. In the world of art, even financial success does not end the debate.

     In an environment where "good" or "bad" is open to such subjective polemic, an "espontaneo" trying to impress the "inquisitors of consecration" will meet with an understandable skepticism tending towards a negative prejudice. The rock pile field in the Sonoran desert is where they generally stay.

     Perhaps the greatest "espontaneo" of all time was the universally regaled poet, Ruben Dario. One would think such a prodigious talent would have been incubated in a Paris, New York, Madrid, or other such hive of human development and evolution. Remarkably, this creative giant was born and raised in Nicaragua, one of the truly backwater places of this planet.

     I write this essay knowing full well that the "inquisitors of consecration" would consider it in very poor taste, as if I were the tennis player at the local park with an excuse for everything --- the grip is slippery, the strings are too loose, the sweat, the sun, an excessive period of celibacy coupled with the strawberry shortcake that . I remind such Salmonic purveyors of literary justice that this piece is about "sour grapes", who's essence, I do believe, has been captured with just the proper lack of nobility in this essay. Certainly, I'm not claiming to be another Ruben Dario, nor have I written the next "Moby Dick" (which would be something like comparing my high school science teacher to Albert Einstein). All I'm saying is clean the dust off your word processors, have I got a deal for you: print it up, make it look right, bluff them out, PAY ME NOTHING!

     And don't call me Ishmael.

     Relevant Material: "To write is a long introspective, it's a journey towards the darkest caverns of one's conscience, a slow meditation." From the autobiography of Isabelle Allende, entitled "Paula".

     " . but a story, like life itself, is never complete until someone with an understanding heart listens to it and shares it." From the novel "La Casa de La Laguna" (The House of the Lagoon), by the Puerto Rican woman, Rosaria Ferre.