Gaston Lachaise: Self-Portrait (20th century)

"I will mount my defence against encroaching seasonal cynicism with some Decent poems."

I believe that there’s only one essential battle fully worthy of human engagement, the eternal battle against cynicism. Cynicism has always been humanity’s greatest foe. It possesses strange attractors, though. It tends to interest those who have grown weary of the utter predictability of existence, those who convince themselves that they can see through “the game.” Those who contend that they play no game play the most encumbering one of all. The utter predictability of life can sometimes seem like a curse. Three score and ten, give or take, including the genuine risk of an early demise. The galling impermanence of existence off-puts. Those who fain invulnerability embody only cynicism. They project what they claim to oppose by merely breaking rules, as if liberty were little more than a tenacious inability to get along with anybody else.

After a dog-year downwind from utter incompetence, this witness to the attempted reintroduction of cynicism into our governance finds himself exhausted from the unending exertion. Every damned day, another means of disobeying the law comes into play. The courts have become understandably backed up for decades into the future, while our cynic-in-chief continues merrily projecting spurious grievances. Rejecting both past and future, he’s left with denial. He acts with all the authority of anybody utterly lacking in morality. He vilifies the future in favor of an utterly mythical and eternally unattainable past. His efforts cannot last; they merely clumsily disrupt. They backfire more reliably than a 1924 Hupmobile.

I fled into Decency in defense. On close scrutiny, Decency might seem like a sorry sort of defense, indeed, in that it ultimately defies description and offers little in recompense. It lacks substance, though it reliably works for the purpose I intend. It provides a formal response to even the most cynical acts. It counters sloppiness with a certain uplifting style. It dons kid gloves. It might even wear a tie. It minds its manners, even when there’s nobody else at the table. It maintains a certain standard that elevates even the most mundane. It reminds me how much the kind of engagement matters, even when I’m the only one who notices; maybe especially when.

Decency embodies the discipline cynicism defies. Decency insists that there are no insignificant events, no trivial encounters, that every engagement at some accessible level remains sacred. However attractive cynical engagement might sometimes seem, it never promises the reassurances Decency brings. Cynicism seems like dropping dishes into a sink without an accompanying intention of returning to clean up the mess. It deals in infinite irresponsibilities. It disposes of experiences, even the golden ones, in favor of whatever bright-shiny distraction draws attention next. Decency anchors an existence, making it meaningful for its own sake if not necessarily for everyone else’s. It’s a form of solitaire where the player never cheats or ever employs questionable shortcuts. Decency wins or loses with equal resolve, understanding that each moment is both irreplaceable and eternal.

Decency encourages long memories by embracing moments. As I near Christmas, a holiday with which I have a long and decidedly mixed relationship, I catch myself relying upon my Decency to sustain me. Christmas was always a myth, yet I cannot deny the effect it has on those who believe in it, and even on me. I believe in it after a fashion, not a cynical notion that I must know better than the true believers, but a needier one that recognizes the necessity of respite and celebration, even after—especially after—a dog year like the one just ending. I almost mindlessly flee into my annual mindfulness rituals, grateful for the respite they promise. I feel exhausted. How will I muster another dozen and more original holiday poems this year? How will The Muse manage to produce so damned many Stöllen? What will encourage me to shop for the vintage ornaments again, and to drag that artificial Christmas tree up from the basement? Decency cheers me on.

Cynicism was unable to dislodge my Decency again this year, though under considerable scrutiny, I came close to undermining it myself. I caught myself questioning a little too closely, borderline unhealthily. Decency might be one of that class of mysteries I’m enjoined to simply let be. It has served me well as an innocent response and as an unquestioned ritual. It does not benefit from better definition. I know it when I need it most. I am its host more than its source. It requires no more than an innocent need, the sort of need that cynicism perfectly encourages. Decency amounts to decking halls with boughs of holly. It might be folly, fa la la la la la la la la. It sometimes qualifies as holy, especially when I catch myself just before ordering handbaskets from Amazon Prime. For me, Christmas amounts to CynicismProofing, regardless of its relative truth or fiction, just like Decency does. On the upcoming night before Christmas, all through this house, at least one creature will certainly be stirring. That will be me innocently searching for words that rhyme with mouse, but haven’t been so overused as to have become meaningless. I will mount my defence against encroaching seasonal cynicism with some Decent poems.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Decency, #PureSchmaltz