On idealism—-and Santa
We like perfect.We like stories.We like perfect stories.
When I was a kid,I used to keep a sock under my pillow for Christmas.I was neither Christian nor did I believe in Santa.I knew it was my mamma that stuffed it with little gifts.And yet,I loved it!I suppose I liked the idea of believing in a magic story.The mere concept made me happy,perhaps.I never really gave this a thought until today…
More often than not,things go astray.Life seldom,very seldom,turns out to be the way we planned it to be.And it bloody hurts.Why?Because we like perfect.Because we like stories.Because we like perfect stories.
And just like a lot of things,the meaning of the word “perfect” has been dished out to us,year after year,book after book,poem after poem,movie after movie,song after song…like pathetic dogs,we lap it up—aimlessly,thoughtlessly.Moreover,we use it as the standard parameter to size our life stories with.I would like to blame neural plasticity for it…but that would be lame.
So I sit here,thinking of Le Clezio’s words from The Interrogation-‘Its neither pretty nor bad-tempered,’he said,’it’s just a marmoset.’
I can,perhaps, be cross at flaws.Upset,even.But I am wondering if I can hold a grudge against them.Because,after all, imperfections can be nice.Stories are always nice.It shouldn’t be so hard to appreciate imperfect stories.
It shouldn’t be so hard to let go.
