Cold Mountain

I mentioned in some previous posts the poet Han Shan, who lived in China circa 700 AD and spent his life living in a remote cave about a day's walk from a Buddhist monastery.

I'm reading Red Pine's translation of his work.

That life still looks appealing to me. I get worn out dealing with other people.

I'm old and tired and not very interesting these days. Previously, I was younger and tired and not very interesting.

I keep running into people who think I have a personal obligation to them to change myself into something more to their liking. Why can't I be shorter, taller, thinner, younger, named Blaine or Ridge or Austin? Why can't I drive an SUV or a BMW? Why can't I, like, you know, totally talk like, you know, real people, mmmkay?

(Or, alternately, how come I ain't folks? How come I ain't got a mullet? How come I ain't in the Assembly of God? How come I ain't got a king cab pickup, and bowling ball callouses on my fingertips? Why do I hate Mur'ca?)

When I worked in TV, I was frequently told by my bosses that I wasn't "accessible," which was a way of saying –– well, I never figured out exactly what they were saying, nor could they explain it. The best I could figure was that it seemed like they were happy with my work, but they thought I sucked as a human being because I wasn't 'Edmond' enough.

If I lived alone, away from other people, I wouldn't have to be 'Edmond' enough. I wouldn't have to worry about being too big, too puffy or dumpy, too sleepy-eyed, too this or too that. I could just be me, and no one else would have to look at me, be offended by me or feel uncomfortable around me.

I could just be me.

I have no ambition to be anything other than me.

("Gasp! You bastard!")