Since 9/11, there's been an escalation of hero worship in American society. While a few predictable references occasionally are heard imploring us to tap into "the hero within us all," many find it's much more fun dictating to others who the "real heroes" are of everyday life.
Life is easier this way. You find an individual or an organization that the majority will agree are prime candidates for hero worship, and align your point of view accordingly. You are now a hero expert. This artifice naturally helps deactivate the ability to think for yourself, whisking you off to the land of slogans, a place where ideas are homogenized for our indoctrination.
Ironically, though a writer, I have a strong sense that words are highly overrated. They are a means of relaying needs and wants to others. This is their most elementary function. When words are used to convey desire, the results can be ecstatic or disturbing, visionary or catastrophic. When words are combined to create an idea that attempts to establish a universal truth, it becomes a slogan.
Slogans never enlighten; they are terrorists of the mind. Truth can be looked at in the same way. It is an apparition; seemingly before your eyes but actually floating away. It can't be encapsulated, and is impossible to communicate to another. And if an appointed hero attempts to communicate truth with the use of slogans, well, that is double trouble. Several days ago I thought about all this. I thought that to have a firmer grasp on reality I would need to off my last remaining hero. It was on that day I decided to kill Robert Fripp.
I was long past the banality of thinking he was the greatest guitarist in the history of mankind. His goal of combining Hendrix with Bartok, though largely successful, inexplicably didn't resonate as genius like it did in the 70's. In my heart, however, it was different. I still held on desperately to the Balinese Gamelan experiment of the 80's, even though it tragically morphed into the ugly step child known as "Three of a Perfect Pair". I still idolized "Red", considering it one of the greatest albums of any period, of any genre, ever.
I maintained my belief that "Thrak" was a great attempt at an industrial-prog/ "Sargent Peppers" record. I did enjoy "In the Court of the Crimson King" for many years but the last time I listened to it I fell asleep. I realized later that it wasn't because I was tired, it was because it didn't rattle my cage anymore. But it was their work after "Thrak" that convinced my heart what my mind already knew; King Crimson is a cold, stubborn behemoth; joyless and unapproachable, taking what it does far too seriously.
Some of you may be calling me a moron; others might be asking what took me so long. I've got a feeling the former outnumber the later. At any rate, this realization profoundly infected my relationship with the band. I started noticing a few things. I saw one of their live dvd's, and a painful experience it was, about as exciting as watching paint dry. Oh, there were a few smiles here and there, you know, to let everyone know that they were having fun. I'm not saying they didn't have fun. And I'm not saying there weren't a few sizzling moments. The whole affair seemed pointless in a way that's hard to describe. They were a distinctly different animal than when I saw them last about ten years ago. Someone or something had put out the fire. And after listening to Robert Wyatt's "Rock Bottom" recently, it struck me that there is more joy and wonder in that record than in the entire King Crimson catalog.
The thrill is gone. Which is sad. The group is terrific- I'm just tired of the noise, and need to rid myself of its prime ideologist. I officially intend do so by way of a prop. I received a K.C. t-shirt for my birthday a few months ago. It's the one where a group of aphorisms form a cell. I was a slave to these slogans, any many more like them, thinking they were handed down by Moses himself. I'd read any interview or article about and by Fripp I could get my hands on and devour every word. I mistook his esoteric utterances as truth. My mistake.
I'll list several slogans from the t-shirt here followed with commentary and hopefully exorcize this Crimson Chaos.
"We Begin Where We Are"- I wonder how this would sound to the horrified inhabitants of a poor Sudanese village as government mercenaries wage another mass-slaughter. For the rest of the world, beginning where we are is the surest way to keep the African people where they are.
"Discipline Is A Vehicle For Joy"- Does this vehicle come in a hybrid? At the moment, my fiscal discipline is in decline, and I drive 30 miles to work.
"We Begin Again, Constantly"- ...and end up where we are, which is nowhere.
"Sometimes God Hides"- He's having trouble sticking around to see how it ends.
"Trust Music"- Sure, as long as it doesn't include Cher's.
"Suffer Cheerfully"- I really hope I can remember this one the next time I pass a kidney stone.
"Simply, Clearly, Briefly, Positively"- Concerning what? What does this refer to? Anything you do or say? C'mon, it can't mean that, can it? Is this aphorism really a possibility for your average legendary bookworm guitarist that has spent who knows how many hours devising countless aphorisms, keeping daily journals, pontificating at length about guitar schools, esoteric schools, personal philosophies, world views, and intergalactic cosmologies? I don't get it, because sometimes in order to be clear you need to establish your thought pattern in a logical sequence, laughing in the face of brevity, using as many words as humanly possible. If your ideas are merely expressed simply, clearly, briefly, positively, you end up sounding rather vague, and people have difficulty understanding what you're meaning is. But that's not to say language shouldn't operate in a concise fashion. I really don't know how language operates. I'm just a delivery guy. I only mean to infer that if one is to relate a positive thought or perform a positive action, supposing for one illusory moment there is universal agreement on what constitutes a positive thought or action... wait a minute- ah, shit. I lost my train of thought.
"We Pay Our Own Tab"- But you're a lousy tipper.
"Discard The Superfluous"- Okay, I discard superfluous, and choose excessive.
"Offer No Violence"- Humans are nothing if not violent. To seek or teach non-violence perpetuates violence.
"May We Trust The Inexpressible Benevolence Of The Creative Impulse"- Please see aphorism #7.
"There Are No Mistakes, Save One: The Failure To Learn From A Mistake"- Hiroshima and Nagasaki weren't mistakes if man never drops another nuclear bomb?
Done. No more heros, or words of wisdom. There is only nothing- nothing but myself, here, in this spot, at my computer desk, looking at my King Crimson cell mouse pad. It's pretty cool. I think I'll hang on to that.
About the Author:
Mik Dietlin was born and raised in Torrance,
California, about 20 miles south of Los Angeles. He moved to central Virginia in 2001 with his wife to escape big city life. He earns money by drivingvtrucks, but his real work is writing. He's currently working on a novel. Please feel free to send feedback to Mik at msdietlin@adelphia.net. |
