Allart van Everdingen: Reynard disguises as monk and distracts cock (17th century)

"Hail to the chief."

[Author's Note: I draw this story from various archetypal descriptions of a psychological type: this one, the eternal eight-year-old who cannot successfully focus upon anything for long. The particulars might misrepresent, though I feel confident that these patterns paint quite an accurate portrait. When dealing with Inconstancy, any opponent can feel confident that their opponent will be their opponent’s most effective opposition, for they cannot maintain their focus or attention long enough to achieve any strategic objective. Hell, they rarely maintain focus long enough to settle on a coherent strategic objective. They mainly pursue warm air, not possessing adequate attention to heat their story to the point where it truly qualifies as hot air.]

Perhaps his sole superpower lies in his sheer Inconstancy. Whoever he pretends to be, he's only pretending, and he will not be lingering long. He will shortly be off into some other personna and focused upon some alternate horizon. He ultimately pursues and stands for nothing because accomplishing something, anything, at least demands a little focused attention, something he seems utterly incapable of providing. He speaks expansively about his plans without ever once producing anything even remotely resembling plans. They seem eternally under development, which appears to mean 'back burnered in favor of some alternate bright shiny something or other.' He's promising a 'shock and awe' beginning to his administration, but I'm betting he loses his pants coming out of the starting gate. He will proclaim success before hardly initiating the mess, though he will manage to sanction the making of multiple messes, each of which he'll leave for someone else to clean up once he's publicly declared success.

He was never different. His bankruptcies and business failures carry this common aspect. They were each the offspring of his insistent Inconstancy. Nothing seems capable of holding his attention, if he even possesses attention. If it does exist, its span must be measured in microns, like a spark plug gap; its only purpose might be to provide that single initiating spark before falling into disuse. He exhibits no stick-to-it-iveness. No leadership courses promise to show anyone how to fully develop their Inconstancy quotient, if only because the audience would eternally be off getting interested in something else. There have always been people like this, casual laborers unable to focus on anything like a career. They become loosely associated with their employment. They are definitely not executive material, though sometimes, through flukes, they become executives, sometimes even storied ones. Their entire careers seem to lead toward their ultimate denouement where they embarrassingly crash and burn: the Howard Hughes' of this world, of which there have been surprisingly many. They're not rare.

Their stories tend to finally make sense only when recounted backward. They seem of little consequence when viewed expecting some coherent forward progression, for that's absent. They flitted around and experienced adventures, often becoming offensive in the process. They seem inconsiderate but usually explain that they're too important to consider the needs or feelings of those who depend on them. They seem eternally absent, too busy for anybody to book an appointment with, and out pandering to achieve their next big scheme, which, like the last one, won't end nearly as well as projected due to a particular absentee landlord and sponsor. He seems to own a universe but seems unimpressed with whatever accomplishments he's already achieved, most likely because he was absent when they occurred, so he never experienced the sensation of achieving. He's known only striving, the unrequited kind. He consequently seems uncommonly needy.

He seems to require constant reassurance. He's a fool for others feeding him aspirations and too unfocused to find them for himself. He ultimately becomes a tool for others to achieve their desires, though he'll redirect his support short of them attaining their objectives, too. He cannot help it. He remains an eight-year-old in a nearly eighty-year-old body. His sole remaining entertainment seems to be creating uproars. He reportedly roars with laughter when he rope-a-dopes friend or adversary. His sole joy left in life lies in misdirecting others' attention so they make public fools of themselves. This seems to be the sole remaining experience he treasures in his rapidly dimming twilight years.

I imagine there might have once been a time when he reasonably anticipated growing up one day, lengthening that attention span and focusing intently upon something worthy of this world. That time passed long ago and will not be returning. He will die a child unable to decide from among the infinite choices laid out before him. He must have all of the above, which means he will be denied all of the above and more. Without some constancy of focus, purpose quietly extinguishes itself. I doubt he'll even notice. He will always be focused somewhere else, and even if his focus happens to register something alluring, the force of long habit will insist that he continue sifting through his infinite choices. He will not notice how little he will have accomplished, for he will have successfully distracted himself by randomly boasting about all of his non-existent accomplishments.

Hail to the chief or something.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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