Albert Sterner:Three natures (1932)

“Nature is the realm of the unspeakable. It has no voice of its own, and nothing to say. We experience the unspeakability of nature as its utter indifference to human culture.”

— James P. Carse

Now that The Muse serves as a Port Commissioner, she gets called on to attend no end of local functions: fundraisers, friend raisers, and the odd assorted barn raising. I accompany, if only in my role as Arm Candy. I attend but never feel very at home there, for while I am from here, I never felt as though I was 'of' here, for the native culture always felt pretty alien to me. If I cannot feel at home in my own native culture, where, precisely, do I feel at home? It's an interesting question because I suppose I feel most at home as an alien. After decades of working far away from home and the dog years in exile, I feel I have no culture other than that of the typical hermit in transit. The Muse complains that I don't get out much, and her complaint seems accurate; it's just that I don't understand why my not getting out much qualifies as a complainable condition. If one has no culture, I suppose one tends to stay close to home, where the differences likely seem less glaring and where one can most conveniently associate with one's own kind.

As it is, I can hardly go out in public without noticing what certainly seems like some odd anomaly to me but probably not to anybody truly 'of' this culture. Ten thousand little cues disclose what no description ever could. I cannot describe what leaves me feeling like an alien here, but its glaring presence generally translates into my not needing to precisely describe it. What The Muse's mom used to call "get-ups" often prompts a comment; some incongruous combination of fashion and an absent horse sense encourages an observation from me, he without a discernable culture of his own. My internal dialogue frantically mumbles as I attempt to make sense of the otherwise absolutely nonsensical. I admit to too frequently resorting to ridicule, for how else might an alien find anything like parity than by standing in judgment bordering on hilarity?

My rational self insists that I'm neither better nor worse than anybody else, but it's tough to keep my sarcasm at bay when the surrounding space seems filled with inept cosplay. The Muse constantly sushes me while praying nobody overhears my running commentary. She chuckles with me but not so much with amusement. She's likely to cover her mouth and scan the crowd to determine if she's been found out. We both run in some semblance of deep cover here, for we are both from here now but remain relatively confident that we will never find ourselves 'of' here. We might swear to resort to better costuming to seem better to fit in, though I will never resort to sporting a black felt cowboy hat. I do have that black-felt Indiana Jones Stetson that might outclass those broader-brimmed western jobs without showing me up as someone out in public with a bare head, a sure tell in many circumstances here. The Muse swore to acquire something with fringe for those times when fringe just seems necessary to properly fit in.

I feel every bit an anthropologist here, maybe not precisely from Mars, but definitely 'of' someplace else. Where I'm 'of' eludes me, for I came up into the middle of a budding counter-culture, which was never quite sure which norms it should embrace, so it held most in at least mild disdain. Those who inherited the family spread had little motive to reject norms. They dutifully trudged off to Wazzu for their degree and equally dutifully trudged back up to Pullman for the championship games and homecomings. They naturally gravitated without question toward supporting the Mariners and the Seahawks and have recently acquired a taste for The Kracken, too. They inherited the family cabin at Wallowa and have been horse camping since they were infants. They unselfconsciously drive an ungainly pickup and wear cowboy boots, indifferent to what they do to their gait. They drink bourbon and Coors Light and, come Saturday night, might consent to a turn around a roadhouse dance floor while The Muse and I sequester watching something educational on PBS.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #iAlogue , #PureSchmaltz