Eccentrics - Don't Be A Wage Slave

I love eccentrics! They are the plashes of paint on an expressionist (1) canvas, disseminating our gaze to the whole tableau – its intricate design, its meaning, its aftertaste. Without their unique personalities, our society would, most certainly, be spiritually poorer and bereft of those questions of life and love. They seem to ask, “Who am I and why am I here?”

I recently stood at a stoplight beside a man who had evocative tattoos running along his right shoulder — their speed was intense. Fortunately, they were dramatically halted by the imposition of his rather large ear. To punctuate this image, he was topped with an explosion of pink hair. As garish as this scene may sound, it made him, curiously, unforgettable in an otherwise bland and somewhat sad landscape of tired eyes and stooped figures – it was Friday after all.

When I was a child, there was an equally memorable character in my small village. His name was Dave Mathensen. I remember him as a swarthy, somewhat overweight, 50ish-year-old man with unconventionally long hair. He was a welder by trade. What produced the conflict with our village council was his totally unorthodox approach to the common good, the stress here being on the word “common.” He was a pure anarchist, (2) in the classic sense, and did not believe in any form of government. That said, he owned an impressive parcel of land that fronted onto the main thoroughfare of our community at the beginning of its formal entrance. Times were changing in the 1960s and 1970s. The frontier or “wild west” attitude of these industrial towns was being gentrified. They were cleaning up and becoming more presentable to the outside world — the world of families and of tourists.

Dave, of course, would have none of this. He was an iconoclast and his land was his private domain. In a moment of whisky-altered creativity, he began to use his blowtorch (3) to sculpt metal figurines. These cast-iron examples of landscape art (4) were initially tolerated. Though ugly and offending to the local sensitivities, they were allowed to stand. They probably couldn’t have been legally moved anyway. What brought this all “to a head” was when he acquired some disused gas tanks. Our town had hosted a large military seaplane (5) base during World War Two and everything was now being decommissioned and sold off. These included the in-ground aviation fuel tanks. They were truly enormous. Our peculiar welder purchased two of them. They had to be dug out of the ground, a huge feat in itself. I remember as they were being transported past our home on their way to Dave’s terrain. My parents’ large domicile and surrounding property were dwarfed by their presence – it was true theatre to a small child.

Upon arriving at their destination, Dave began to cut these structures into oval strips, much like you would dissect an orange. Scaffolding was erected. Slowly, ever so slowly, the Tower of Babel (6) began to rise to the heavens. We all know that God eventually prevented any further construction by striking the workers with multiple languages, thereby rendering any coordinated construction impossible — and thus all building ceased. In this temporal instance, it had to be the same. It was my father, unfortunately, in his capacity as a village elder, who had to intercede and relay the bad news. I remember being safely ensconced in my pere’s truck as the argument ensued outside. Our home was very quiet and conservative. I was, therefore, stunned and somewhat frightened by the shouting and bellowing that took the place of rational discussion. It was as if I was an observer to a stupendous West Coast storm, (7) and yet safely sheltered inside a structure.

In the end, my father prevailed and over the next week or so the tower was gradually demolished. The result, however, was pernicious for Dave’s zeitgeist, his joie de vivre. This incident seemed to “break him” in a rather tragic way, and for the rest of his life he took solace in a glass and not in his torch. Everyone was saddened by this. Our collective innocence had somehow been lost, never to return and no one quite knew why. At five years of age, I had been given an invaluable lesson: I realized that people are very fragile and we can easily destroy their eccentricity, their uniqueness. We should, therefore, take care with these sensitive souls. They add to the complexity and sweetness of human society or at least should. We must embrace and protect our eccentrics; they enrich our society and reduce its vapid disposition. The great philosopher and thinker, John Stuart Mill, (8) leaves us with a thought: The amount of eccentricity in a society has generally been proportional to the amount of genius, mental vigor, and moral courage it contained. That so few now dare to be eccentric marks the chief danger of the time.

A closing thought: There have been times in history when we were pushed to conform to standards that we perhaps didn’t agree with or fully understand their validity. These had the effect of killing our creativity and muzzling public discourse — think of the times under Joseph Stalin (9). Certain movements in Western culture are gaining traction in schools and in the bureaucracy. Even though we are geographically at great distance, we should be informed. I highly recommend Douglas Murray’s book, The Madness of Crowds (ISBN: 978-16-3557-998-7) to begin to develop your own personal perspective.

To sum up: This week, we spoke about eccentrics and why they add so much to our community.

To be noted: From Yvon Chouinard (10) — It’s okay to be eccentric if you’re rich; otherwise you’re just crazy.

Just for fun: UNRAVEL (FULL version – Tokyo Ghoul OP) – English opening cover by Jonathan Young

For reflection: What is man?

This week on your reflective walk, please think of your own uniqueness.

Every day look for something magical and beautiful.

Quote: We must celebrate all aspects of life: even the cockroach has her place.

Footnotes:

1) What is Expressionism? Art Movements & Styles

2) https://www.britannica.com/topic/anarchism

3) Vintage Blowtorch Roars to Life (Good and Loud)

4) Christo and Jeanne-Claude Wrap Up the Reichstag | Lost Art