About Nobody's Perfect
Post 313:
This might be a bit meandering, but let’s give it a go. In my attempt to explain, I may just prove the point I wish to make.
There’s big thought days and little thought days. Today was a big thought day. By this I mean to say that I was thinking about life and abstractions and definitions rather than doing early spring cleaning. Perhaps it would be wiser to simply retreat from the big and accomplish the small, but hey, sometimes the mind carves out its own path.
It started because I’m feeling worn out. My job is essentially impossible, as is my passion. Before you make something out of it, I don’t mean to be whiny about my situation. It’s better than most. Still, it chafes the soul, not being able to do things right. To do my music job “correctly,” I would literally have to know every song ever written. Of course this is absurd, but on the face of it, it’s what I’m asked to do.
My passion is writing. Different circumstances, but same diagnosis. There’s no perfect story. Even if you get somewhere near a masterpiece, it won’t be totally unflawed. It’s not the nature of the game.
The truth is, being a perfectionist in any pursuit is a little cracked. What about the world and life gives the impression that anything can be A-OK?
But we’re out there, banging our heads against the wall, knocking ourselves out in the process. I tend to think that everyone is a little bit of a perfectionist, even if it’s not their prevailing characteristic. Who doesn’t like things particularly particular, just the way they planned or asked for? I think that contentedness is sometimes simply the willingness to supplant our need for things to be right. Some are better than others at it.
This is all pretty bleak sounding, but maybe not. They say there’s virtue and peace in letting go. Sure there’s some truth to it. There’s going to be problems, but we’re here and we get to give it a shot. Funny thing is, if I was able to do anything perfectly, wouldn’t it just bore me? Knowing the outcome nullifies the story, so to speak. Without flaws, there’s really not much living.
I’d rather hear Well Done at the end of work or when someone reads one of my stories. It’s preferable to Perfect, because the former can be true.
Now it might be that there are arguments for the perfection of nature. It can only be what it is, right? It’s like math. There’s something to that, I suppose, but once humanity is infused into the equation, the chalkboard gets a lot messier.
Guys like Rousseau made arguments that man could feel more in tune by getting back in touch with nature, shirking the accouterments of society and living more instinctually. I can’t see how this works in the end. He was a brilliant guy, but I personally think getting in touch with something that could kill you at any moment a little nutty and at best naïve.
I’m afraid I’ve reached no conclusions. Dealing with our own inadequacy is something one has to confront on their own. Let go. Or don’t. Or find a place in between where you can be happy. Sorry for the lack of answers. Full apologies, but hey, nobody’s perfect.
