Working on my book over the past few months, I have become acutely aware of how important presentation is. Often, it is not what you say but how you say it.
This is the sobering reality I must face in this world, one which instinctively, somewhat vengefully, diminishes content in favor of form. More thought and energy must be invested into who I’m relating my content to, how I need to relate that content, and why consumers might need to care about my product.
Since I, at the moment, am the only person aware of how precious, mind-bending, earth-moving, and crucial my material is to everyone alive, I need to show others how critical these ideas are and why. I need to show them why the knowledge is important, so essential for them, not only for me.
This world, and the people in it, mirror such tasks. Women, for example, recognized the advantages of primping and priming long ago, an idea which helps to explain make-up, hair styles, jewelry, nose-, lip-, boob-, and ass-jobs, as well as liposuction, vaginoplasty, prostitution, beauty magazines, modeling agencies, beauty salons, $1,950 T-shirts (Zegna), and, possibly, Chihuahuas.
Men have their own solutions to the presentation problem. They often sell or sold their brands of specialness by holding or having golden maces, crowns, scepters, imperial orbs, big sticks, hammers, tridents, horns/longhorns/ cornucopia, badges, trophies, diplomas, purple, uniforms, purple uniforms, tattoos, Cadillacs, Mercedes Benz & Hedgeses, AMC Pacers, and gold teeth.
Instead of commenting or criticizing such things, I will merely point out that humans are or seem uberdesperate for proof: of power, of wealth, and of beauty. Odd that Nature’s other creations care not one iota for the same proofs, and waste no time seeking them.
Why is that?
Here is one explanation, though there are surely many:
I say we need all our proofs because, deep down, all of us are intensely aware of how full of bullshit we are. Hence the insomnia and nightmares, the sleeping pills and alcoholism. We are full of bullshit because we convince ourselves and each other that we’re somehow apart from Nature, if not better. We are full of bullshit because we convince ourselves that we’re apart from, if not better than, God. We are full of bullshit because we convince ourselves that the Super Bowl means something. But don’t take my word for it, here’s Lawrence Taylor, who won two, talking about his first Super Bowl victory:
“When the Super Bowl was over ... Everyone was so excited, but by then I felt deflated. I'd won every award, had my best season, finally won the Super Bowl. I was on top of the world right? So what could be next? Nothing [Not my emphasis]. The thrill is the chase to get to the top. Every day the excitement builds and builds and builds, and then when you're finally there and the game is over ... And then, nothing.”
We’re full of shit because we believe that humankind is the pinnacle of creation, and not “just” an integral part. We’re full of shit for putting on suits and uniforms and adding titles to our names and enclosing ourselves in private soundproof phone booths in private, hierarchically superior offices in private, towering buildings and in private, walled, “secure,” tastefully decorated homes, all away from God’s grace and/or the sun’s healing rays.
We’re full of shit because we fervently believe competition makes us better humans, that flags and borders and money mean anything, and that any of our ideas about living life are sustainable over time. We’re full of shit because we believe something that won’t stand the test of time must still be engaged in assiduously.
We’re full of shit for valuing form over content, for valuing material things over spiritual ones, for valuing financial health over mental health.
Most of all, we’re full of shit for trusting our superior, like, brains to get us out of every jam when the only answer is love. After all, it was our brains that got us into most, if not all, of our problems. It’s love that always seems to eradicate doubt, confusion, frustration, and pain.
In my mind, the question–”Where do we go from here?”–should be raised. We’ve tried going down, and I can’t suppose there’s many people out there who truly believe we’ve found anything useful in that direction. We’ve also touched the moon, maybe, and found nothing there but rocks. So how about revisiting the place we came from?
This third planet from the sun is really not so bad. It has air, water, fire, light, plenty of room and food, aesthetic beauty, physical challenges for those who, like my father said, have a strong back and a weak mind, and, of course, everyone’s fave: sex.
What’s so hard about being here, always, neither worrying about the future nor wallowing in the past, enjoying every breath of air we take in this silly, special, magical, accursed, spectacular, phantasmagorical life of ours?