The Peeled Kvetch

Rilke was right.  (Or:  Rilke was correct.)  (Or:  Rilke was a banana.)  (No, he wasn’t a banana, he was a poet.)  (Okay, maybe he was a banana and a poet, but I’ve never heard of a banana named Rilke.)  (Perhaps, I will name the banana I peel tomorrow morning, “Rilke.”)  (And, perhaps, the following day, I will name the banana I peel then, “Rilke, Jr.”)  (Or:  perhaps not.)  (Initially, I addressed this post to Rilke himself--as a dead poet, not as a peeled banana--but as the tone of the post grew more hostile, I shelved that idea.)  My “daily life seems poor” and I am “not poet enough to call forth its riches.”  But I do not blame it, I blame myself.  And so, as I have always done, I exaggerate my poor (or seemingly poor) daily life.  I make a mockery of it.  Nobody would find amusement in reading an unadulterated record of all the mundane rituals I partake in day in and day out.  (Perhaps I should have edited out “day in and day out,” but, as you can see, I lacked the initiative to do so.)  Amusement is the objective here. (Mind you, just because I have an “objective,” I do not claim any success at having accomplished it.)  It is (PAINFULLY) evident that all the feeble-minded schleps (and schlepettes) of the world with an internet connection have the option of posting every single drab detail of their daily lives.  Let them.  It gives them purpose.
Being absurd and opaque gives me purpose.
Is it so difficult to understand?  Is it so damnable that I must, instead, follow your example of useless updates and uninspired intrusions?  Are you really so obtuse that I must explain exactly what I am trying to achieve with every unconventional post or creation? 
Here ya go:
Simply put:
And, clearly, I would rather confuse and frustrate than bore you.  My assumption is that you are more interested in figuring me out, and less interested in reading about how I slice a banana, every morning, for Pop to take with his pills.  (You see, he doesn’t take water with his pills; he prefers a bit of banana, instead.  I suppose that is somewhat interesting.  But, let’s be honest, I’m not going to post anything of actual interest free of charge.  I’d be an idiot to do that.  My current fee for the straight dope on my actual humdrum life is $10 per double-spaced page.  As of yet, there haven’t been any takers, so I am contemplating a half-price sale.)  Instead, I choose to amuse in the best and most unique way that I am able.  If, however, you are continually frustrated by my work, stop dropping by.  “Unfriend” me.  But you are not entitled to call me an “idiot” just because you don’t get it or it annoys you.  (Indeed, recently, I was called an “idiot.”  It saddens me that this old chum of mine couldn’t come up with a more inventive insult.  To be honest, however, he called me an “idiot,” on Facebook, not because of my narrative opacity, but because of my taste in pizza.)
I am an idiot.
You are a dullard.  And a bully.  And inconsiderate.  You are predictable.  You are run-of-the-mill.  Unremarkable.  Forgettable.  Conventional.  And I am fine with being an idiot.  (Or, at least, I am becoming, more and more, fine with being an idiot.)  Why?  Because, unlike you, I can afford to be an idiot.  (This last sentence troubles me, for it is distasteful, in my country, at this writing, to suggest that one is wealthy.)  And let’s not forget:  If I am, indeed, an idiot, then I am an interesting idiot.  I am not the kind of ordinary idiot that goes around calling people I fail to understand:  “idiots.”  Something else you should be aware of, you, who looks down on my purposely aberrant and abstruse efforts (assuming and hoping that my efforts are, in fact, aberrant and abstruse):  Until the unconventional individual gains fame and fortune from being himself (or herself)--from being true to his (or her) own unique talents--he (or she) is labeled a weirdo and a persona non grata.  But once he (or she) has Made It, all (or a great many) bestow upon him the title of Genius (or Hero, or Idol, etc.).  History is riddled with such men (and women--but more men than women.  Why?  Because men are more likely to engage in pissing contests; and then, of course, we must make note of them with statistics and such, and after that deem the best of them historic pissing contests; and then, ultimately, build a hall of fame for the most revered of all the pissants).  Yes, some are burned at the stake.  Others are deified.  The best ones are perhaps the recipients of both treatments.  What do I want?  Well, I am certainly no masochist or arsonist (my self-chosen moniker is the only burning I care to be associated with).  As for lionization, well, everybody likes to be liked.  (Like me on Facebook right now, why don’t you?)  But, given the choice, I would not trade places with the likes of Michael Jackson.  His life underscores this fact:  The pinnacle of Fame is as punishing as the summit of Mount Everest.  I like rock climbing, but I am not that ambitious.  “Because it’s there” was George Herbert Leigh Mallory’s answer to the question, "Why do you want to climb Mount Everest?"  What we might forget is that Mallory died trying.  Me?  I just want to amuse.  (Or, at least, confuse.  Alas!  If I have failed to amuse and confuse then all is lost and I really ought to find myself another hobby.)  “To please” was Molière’s famous answer to the question, “What is the purpose of theatre?”  Molière said something like that somewhere.  I’m almost certain of it.  I think the evidence for it is in Tartuffe--although my New Oxford American Dictionary defines Tartuffe as “a religious hypocrite, or a hypocritical pretender to excellence of any kind.”  But hey, I get a bye.  Why?  Because, remember, I’m just an idiot.  With a banana to peel.  Named Rilke.  And tomorrow morning I will greet it.  “Hello, Rilke,” I’ll say.  “Are you ready to be peeled?”  And Rilke will refuse to answer.  Why?  Because Rilke is a banana.        

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