A long time ago sitting behind some high achievers so one may be forced to listen in on their idle conversation. It was nearing the end of the semester, and they were talking about all of their test scores across the classes they shared. As a ping-pong match so each would serve a set of numbers for the other to rebuke or return.
Nothing wrong with competition! Nothing wrong with valuing some book smarts; that’s the basis by which one extends their arm out to the world. But as one may listen and wonder so may a despair settle in.
Like all the things we’re learning were just for that: a fun little sport and maybe all the powers that be are making us as the cattle we’re meant to be; middle managers amongst the conglomerates pushing papers across straits, pushing papers into the new administrations, high-priest scientists giving affirmations.
There were a lot of books to read back then. Some of them could give a good service to some concepts. Even some critical passages may serve as bedrock by which one can navigate the world.
But in the manner they would drop the numbers so it wouldn’t be all that different if they started dropping band names, or historical battles, or nutritional trivia, news. Maybe this shared environment resulted these conversations – one could only wonder how much of it was driven by this shared environment. Maybe one could wonder how many more red markers numbers could we draw across the forehead before declaring the victor.
If you want to measure intelligence, just look at how happy you are each day. It doesn’t matter how many books you read if you can’t figure out how to enjoy the day. It doesn’t matter what your position is, your bankroll, it does not matter if you are the leading member of the next intergalactic non-profit – it only matters in relation to how empty your mind is, how effortless you could be. The thoughts cease when there’s a congruence between actions and desire.
If one did listen in on such conversations, maybe then a nausea would set in. All of these teachings and yet not a least bit closer to anything at all. Just stamped on the back that you’re certified enough to be proper enough to be proud enough of some pre-Bartleby living.
When you feel the despair of wearing facts as jewelry, memorabilia as entry-fee toward some “elite” club – maybe then you would reconsider all of it. Where it doesn’t matter anymore what you read, or why. And whatever you learn about doesn’t reflect anything at all beyond your ability to integrate into your own creations, your own satisfactions.
Ever since then, it seems like reading is the gateway to Dante’s descent.
May as well be the bumpkin.
As the bumpkin you at least have a chance – a chance to escape the sentencing. Not to imply that being a bumpkin lets you be some sort of individualistic hero, standing alone.
Funny enough, it’s likely the opposite: as one delves deeper into eduction you’ll get a varied world view, far more unique of an imprint than the bumpkin who walks around.
It’s more like, as a bumpkin you’ll be a bit more connected rather than roaming these crashed castles in the sky. And from there you could take the abandoned bricks no one looks at anymore and build something of your own.
Maybe then one could laugh around the burning barrel brick hut beneath the highway.
And after enough time next to the fire maybe you’ll waver about how happiness or intelligence really matters. Or if it’s even in your control. As the fire dances maybe you’ll see yourself in the same dance; thoughts as embers, arms as shot flickers.
A little shame may arise thinking you could avoid being “different” than the ping-pongers prior. How miserable, avoiding fates to only embrace fates! A chuckle to follow.
Yeah, may as well be the bumpkin. Whatever happens, happens.