johnbyronkuhner.com

The first thing you should know about me is that I am a ridiculous man. And I admit, that even for me to say such a thing, to start off with, must sound (as in fact it is) ridiculous. A ridiculous man! Who would say such a thing today? It has already been said. You cannot say something that has already been said. And why not, may I ask? And I will tell you your answer: because it is ridiculous. And I have already admitted that, so let us go on. Let me be the first to say that I have no originality. It is part of my ridiculousness. It is a great part of ridiculousness to be constantly borrowing things from others, to have nothing of your own. And that is me. When I read things, I say, “There I am! That’s me!” But of course it’s ridiculous to think that what I read about in a book can be like me. But that’s how it appears to me. I am never myself – I am always some other, ridiculous thing, that died a hundred or a thousand years ago.

What makes me even more ridiculous, is that while to me I resemble everything I read, I resemble nothing I see in other people. That is the other prime characteristic of ridiculousness. A ridiculous person cannot be like the people around him. He cannot be according to the mode. If you are fashionable, you cannot be ridiculous. “Hey-ho,” you say, “now you are truly being ridiculous. Think of the nineteen-eighties! Nothing could be more ridiculous than being fashionable then.” But you are wrong, my friend – you are exactly wrong. The ones who seem ridiculous now, are precisely the ones who were not then. And this is proper. Ridiculousness is not a matter of what. It is a matter of when. If a man got up to give a speech in Congress buck naked, you would say, “Good heavens! What is he doing? He’s naked!” But if he got into a bathtub wearing a blue suit and red tie, you would find fault with him then too. Fashion is entirely opposed to ridiculousness, no matter how ridiculous it may be. In fact, I dress perfectly according to the fashion – just not according to the fashion of today. And so, someone may look back at me in years to come and say, “You know, that chap, he was the one who didn’t make an ass of himself in those days.” But they will be wrong. Because in fact, from head to toe, inside and out, I was entirely ridiculous, all of my life.

“Okay,” you say; “you dress inappropriately, and you are utterly lacking in originality. Is there any other way you are ridiculous, before I stop listening to you? For there is a difference between ridiculous and being boring.” Right you are, sir. I apologize for being so slow in coming to my point – it’s a fault of mine. Sometimes I feel that it takes me so long to get something out usually, that I decide to skip all preambles and prologues, and simply express myself directly, without any preparation. And that is even more ridiculous, as I am well aware. But you see, it’s moderation I lack; that’s my big problem. On a first date, I can either talk to a woman all night long about nothing, or simply kiss her. It’s no surprise I’m lonely. And also I have very strong tastes when it comes to women. I can’t stand a dumpy woman. Or a stupid one. When I hear stupid girls talking, for some reason I start touching my face. I know it’s a bad habit, because then I get zits, but I can’t help myself. I just think to myself, “God, why do you have to be so stupid!” This may sound like a digression, but in fact this is often how I prepare myself for a major revelation. I begin by embarrassing myself, and this makes my mouth and brain move more quickly, and finally I say what I have been planning to say. “Don’t be such an idiot,” you say. “When you give embarrassing, personal details about yourself, like for instance the fact that you are picky about women despite being completely unattractive yourself and having zits all over your face, your audience stops listening to the substantive things you have to say.” Which is precisely, my friend, the reason why I do it! It’s far easier to say things when no one is listening. Not as ridiculous as you might have thought, eh?

I have a chemical imbalance. That is what I have been meaning to say. What kind of chemical imbalance? I will tell you. We all know the point of animal life. Certain combinations of genes (you will see, I am ridiculous but I am not stupid), existing in the body, drive us (and all other animals) to compete with other animals bearing other genes. These genes desire their own multiplication. They communicate to us by certain chemicals. These chemicals are cues to us, and they make us compete. So your average Joe Cytosine is told by his genes, “You have to go to the gym! Females, who are the key to our survival, do not like flabby bodies!” And “You have to make more money! Females, who are the gateway to eternity, need a secure financial future for their progeny!” And so we have society. Now every activity, be it collecting gemstones or singing in a choir or playing on a football team, has its origins in some kind of survival trait for our genes. And since not all genes are passed on to the next generation (the proof of which, I may add, are my tender, stranger-to-the-sun loins), every activity takes the form of a competition, in which genes goad us on to demonstrate our superiority and reproduce.

But I, sir, have a chemical imbalance. What is it? Well sir, as talkative as you may find me, my genes are almost mute. Perhaps I talk so much to make up for their silence! Perhaps if they communicated as much to me as they do to other people, I would have less need to prattle on myself! Or perhaps I was born without the chemical receptors to hear them. But very simply, when I see others competing, I do not find it engaging and lovely. In fact, I find it ridiculous! What could be more ridiculous! The racers all line up at the starting line, and one of them runs in a different direction, or starts doing hurdles, or begins picking flowers. “What are you doing, you idiot,” his team yells to him, “this is a sprint! Not hurdles and not botany! Run to that finish-line!” And he says, “I’m not worried what those other people are doing. I’m more interested in these other things I am doing.” And they gnash their teeth and weep and wail and bemoan the day they were ever put on the same team as me. Those are my family members, by the way. To no one am I as ridiculous as I am to them.

But so it is. I have a chemical imbalance. I know I should not touch my face. It gives me zits. I am the ugliest man alive. No woman would ever touch me. But somehow, that is not enough motivation for me. Why, if I were to become better looking, I say sometimes, that would mean that someone else will have to be uglier than I am. And perhaps he would feel bad about that! Perhaps there is some miserable soul that I encounter in the course of the day, who is feeling terrible about himself, and he sees me, and says, “Thank God I am not like him! I’m bad, but he is the ugliest, least desirable person I have ever seen. He’s so ugly it’s ridiculous.” Why, that would make me happy.

And there: that is another reason why I am ridiculous. Whereas all the world knows that life is competition and the sweetest thing is victory, I even rejoice in losing. Yes, I am happy to lose. Before the race, I see the tense looks on the faces of the other runners, the concentration and the seriousness. Whereas I simply have my vacant little grin on my face. And when my competitors have the victory, I rejoice in their smiles and laughter. The victory has gone to the right place! I could never be so happy as they are in their little successes. Why should success not belong to him who loves it? When I walk down the street and see people in fancy cars, I say to myself, “Better him than me! I would never love such a thing as much as they do.” And when I see fine houses, I say, “Look at how happy they are! And part of their happiness is due to me! Because when they try to cheat me out of their money, I part willingly with it, and when they need someone to pick up after them or take care of their children or any of the other things that you need when you are trying to manage a lifestyle such as they have, I do it for them.”

“A-ha,” you say, “I understand your little game now. You think you are Mother Theresa, and Mahatma Gandhi. You go around in your loincloth, feeling superior to all those people wearing normal clothes. I admit that you are ridiculous, but in a very common way. The religious have always claimed to be above the petty concerns of others.” Fine, fine, my friend, but consider this. Gandhi and Mother Theresa dedicated themselves to great causes, and they competed every minute of their lives to be recognized as saints and devotees. I don’t even go to church. I don’t believe that the universe will love us more if we say novenas or go on a pilgrimage or give away our money to people who will spend it ridiculously. I take no interest in any of those things. In all the competitions of life, I am a bad competitor. I am nobody’s hero, but I am nobody’s saint either. I have not “given up women”: they aren’t attracted to me and I can’t manage to change my behavior on their account. I haven’t “renounced riches”: I just haven’t gotten any. No sir, I am no saint. I am just the fig tree that produced no figs. “What is the point of a fig tree that produces no figs!” you say. I agree with you. Such a tree is ridiculous.

But let me tell you a dream I have had, not once but several times, and each time my dream is slightly different and has differing details, but each time it comes I know it is the same dream. I dreamt that I awoke one day, and went outside immediately (for I rarely wash myself, it being a bother to do so as often as most people do, as well as unnecessary) in my rumpled bedclothes. But I felt different, that I had been sleeping for a very long time. And I could tell, from the way people looked at me, out in the streets, that something had happened: they saw me, but no one was placing themselves above me. They did not need to. People wore various types of clothes, but I could see that each person had chosen his own style, and was not competing with anyone else. I knew that something strange had happened when I looked around at people’s clothes and could not see any brandnames. Then I looked at the cars, and all the brandnames had gone from them too. And the doors were all open, and they all started without keys, for anyone who needed a certain car for a certain purpose could take one. And then I looked at the trees, and none of them had fruit on them, because they would never grow old and need to replace themselves. And when the women looked at me I knew that they were not disposing of me in their minds as inferior genetic material, but we were entirely in the present, unconcerned about our genetic recombinations. And everyone was so happy and at peace, and there was no striving or straining anywhere. And I met a woman who was looking around wondering at everything, and she said to me, “Excuse me, can you tell me where I am? I think I’m lost. Most things look the same, but everything is different.” And I said to her, “Sure. You’re in the world that I inhabit all the time in my mind.”

And then each time I awake, and wondering at the way things could be, I say to my dream woman, “Miss, you’re not lost. You’re merely part of the dream of a ridiculous man.”