Nobody

1.

Illness, aging, addiction, and that clearly cry-for-help psychosis of putting pineapple on pizza are — as the 12 steppers like to say — an equal opportunity affliction.

The same cannot be said of the world of spectacular failures. It is a members-only club whose admittance, while never wanted, is always, eventually, embraced — by both the Spectacular Failure as well as the rest of the world. Just not in that order. The world always knows first.

I write of my own evolution, my path of experimentation, curiosity, and desires — traveling along the flat circle of time. A 192% double shot of awareness — you always wind up back where you started. An existential cocktail that would make Sartre’s nausea seem like a mild case of GERD.

I know I am not alone. There are other Spectacular Failures. We just don’t hang out. The world, however, loves to try to see us. Like eye floaters, Spectacular Failures can be seen in the periphery but never focused upon.

And yet, everyone seems to want to explain the situation of the Spectacular Failure to them — as if they are the experts on failure. To show — in a masquerade of empathy — that they know and they get it. But like an English teacher filling in for the chemistry teacher, they can see the textbook in front of them, are able to read the words, but they just make no sense, and wind up blaming the chemistry students for not being better at English.

I have come to the conclusion that the final step in becoming a Spectacular Failure must be, not just the questioning of “if I am one,” or “am I on the path to becoming one.” No. It is the finite moment, not just realization, but of acceptance — embracing the irreconcilable dichotomy of your nature: that YES you are a Spectacular Failure! And then that, yes, you are OK with it.

It is a journey. A journey that — when paying attention — provides breadcrumbs and clues to lead you, like “Nobody” in Dead Man, to who you really are. One that ends not in the sadness or shame that you might think — but in content isolation.

The Spectacular Failure learns that others and society may want to label you, to get you to accept and retreat from life. To get you out of sight. To not be a present and constant reminder to the rest of their own ignored angst. Hard to sell deodorant to a society that refuses to sweat.

2.

The Spectacular Failure resides in a place known only to themselves. Free from the rules and demands of those who pester the rest of humanity. Not because the rules don’t apply to him. They do. And the Spectacular Failure generally lives within the rules. He just chooses not to let them bother him.

Not part of those who move and shake. Not those in homes, apartments, executive suites, planes, or on the airwaves. Those hiding behind the headlines, bylines, and bland lies. Those at ground level, those that are the grist in the mill. The stones in the road. The people who truly make history but whom history never remembers.

The Spectacular Failure is never at home in any of these worlds. Yet, he resides everywhere and understands his role — to be the sponge for all of humanity. Soaking up the mess of those causing pain and carnage — at any level — so the rest can continue to breathe, love, and care for those around them. The Spectacular Failure absorbs the misery and worries — so all can brace for the next wave of lies from the Poets, Priests, and Politicians.

The true enigmatic shapeshifting nature of the Spectacular Failure is that no doors are ever closed to him. Yes, street-level is where he is most welcomed and at ease. Never a stranger to those who reside there. There is a mutual commiseration that can be kept without ever having to owe or feel owed. It’s not that the Spectacular Failure is most comfortable there. It is that the people there are more comfortable than people anywhere else. The more in need, the less they need.

To those believing they are above the others, those born into comfort, or simply the hard-working stiffs who caught the break they needed that propelled them to a life just above street-level — to these folks, too, who, like those at street level — share the same, possess the same deep doubts that have lived within the human beast for centuries. The Spectacular Failure walks easily amongst these as well. But to this world, he must be invited.

The invitations do come.

Feeling at night that chill of silence. Thinking that there really is a beast in the darkness, a monster under the bed. The cops have come to their door. The power cut off unexpectedly, and the lights go dark. Or, the insufficient funds decline when buying food halts them in the queue, leaving them fumbling with shame. The truly and likely unique human awareness, that while they may be near the top of the food chain, there is certainly someone or something out there that will tear them to bits, and that there is absolutely nothing they can do about it.

Because there is.
And they can’t.

This crisis of human modernity, reminders from the days on the Savanna running from whichever beast they just witnessed devour what they thought was their protector. That fragile, hopeful, manicured belief that we are the rulers of our destiny. Knowing that rule hangs by a thread. That despite their repeated protestations of dominance and clinging to the fragile proxies of security, they know how thin the thread is. And that it always snaps. Always to someone else. Please, let it always be, someone else.

And that is their misery. No matter what they may have accomplished, they are still a blink of an eye, a noise in the dark, a knock at the door, away from some horrible awareness that they are next in line to nothingness.

So they invite the Spectacular Failure in, on a whim, to sing for his supper. To both assuage and entertain. To allow them to push upon him their own misgivings — about everyone’s fleeting mortality — and how selfless they really are. To project the uncertainty of their own plight by making it about everyone, especially those poor, unfortunate folks. Those other people.

3.

The Spectacular Failure knows why he has accepted the invitation. He can admit it. His curiosity and need for fleeting acceptance are scolded by his disdain for arrogance and hypocrisy. But the food is good, and if he has money for a ride home, he knows he remains free.

The Spectacular Failure knows his role. He listens and jokes — detached, non-accusing, and never about himself. Remaining grounded in the altitude of their company, it isn’t his intention or desire to remind or to force self-reflection. Vampires have no need for mirrors. And neither do these folks. They only seek a moment of redemption for clinging to what they know belongs to everyone. They are loud. In tone, in spirit, and way of life. But you would be too if you were them, so there is no blame. The Spectacular Failure knows this and knows why he is there.

The Spectacular Failure is simply the sponge of all mankind. The spit-valve clearing the accumulation of shame. Like some old blues musician, he plays back their lives, transposing sorrow into a relief that the listener can pretend is not about themselves. That reminder that the terror, for now, at least, is over, or hasn’t happened yet. Simply by their need for grace, allowing the Spectacular Failure in — in that moment — the temperatures drop. Their racing hearts calm, and laughter can distract.

This all happens long after the Spectacular Failure wished he had left hours ago.

Appreciated, maybe admired, but not really liked. He is not often invited back by the same group of hapless and hopeless, fated accidental caretakers of mankind. Just that one visit will provide enough relief and sublimation to allow these fevered egos to continue. For a little while longer. Until their entitlement is threatened by some other bill that comes due.

Occasionally, an opinion may change. Or a mind may open a little wider, and a check may get written to some cause they will soon forget and eventually disown when ridiculed for the gesture.

They remain confounded by the stillness of the Spectacular Failure’s visit. A soul that has lost so much while never achieving a thing. Having received no rewards for possessing — the something — that they themselves know they will never have. Or want.

Simply seeing how the Spectacular Failure became them, communed with them — without patronizing — when all knew he really didn’t belong. Except for that night. Defining himself without words — embracing them as they are with all their flaws — with a happy fatalistic existence, a charm he very much regrets, that can only be compared to Chaplin.

With carfare in pocket, the tramp moves on.

Next: Missive 26: Interesting

Previous: Out But Not Down: Missive 53

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