:: Don't doubt harder, doubt smarter ::

Thursday, June 24, 2004

A small, older woman tapped me on the shoulder this morning on the way to work. I pulled out my earbuds and leaned slightly in her direction.

"'scuse me, is this where I catch the Q train uptown?"

It was. I told her as much. She seemed confused nonetheless. I asked her where she was going, and my eyebrows arched as I saw the address written on the slip of paper she showed me.

"Oh, that's actually two blocks away from here - just go upstairs and up to 17th, you don't need to take the train at all," I offered. She stared blankly. I repeated my statement to no avail. The conversation lulled for an awkward minute on the sweltering platform before the very Q train about which she'd inquired pulled up to the platform.

"Here it is, this the train that gon' take me there."

I shrugged and let her board. I put my headphones back in and followed her on, stopping to lean against the doors and wallow in a smugness one can only attain by listening to an iPod on the subway. Why, I thought, did she maintain that the train was the superior path, despite my conflicting advice? I'm not in the habit of lying to old women, unless I'm wooing me a sugar momma.

We're a funny lot, aren't we? At some point in our past it paid to strike a balance between steadfast commitment and self-examination. A little doubt is healthy, too much is paralytic. Some of us have this see-saw tilted a little this way or that, some are positively out of kilter, and most all of us adjust it based on the situation.

A perceived bad hair day can mean a thunderstorm of self-indictment. Hitherto rock-solid assumptions of beauty and worth are rendered gelatinous in a heartbeat. Is there no solace from cruel uncertainty, oh mirror of pain? Curse you Sassoon!

But theological beliefs can remain a tranquil sea of certainty against the utmost upheaval. No amount of contrary evidence unsettles our decision. We. Are. Dead. Sure.

Granted these same examples can be juxtaposed without a problem - a priest's crisis of faith certainly dwarfs quotidian coif quibbles, while the self-delusional prowess of some of the toupee troopers I see on those subway rides requires a transcendence of reality approaching the religious. We pick our battles, or have then picked for us. Rarely is one a self-conscious priest battling the demons of both grooming and satan on the same day. It's an evolutionary cul de sac. Instead we're built to have one foot on solid ground and another testing the waters.

I wonder sometimes, is everything I find so certain really so? I based my whole career on an incontrovertible fact: that being the #1 klezmer-rap superstar in this game was the most important priority in my life, and that everything else would fall into place given this one requisite. For a while it appeared an accurate supposition; those first few platinum years were some of the happiest of my life. But then came the multiple paternity suits, the hydroponic soy farm investment scandal, the Scotch Guard addiction. I spent all my time debating which diamond-studded tongs to use at my annual St. Bart's roast suckling pig cookout, and never wondered why I was having the cookout in the first place. I mean, I know why I had the house in St. Bart's (tax haven), but how on earth can I expect forty guests to eat over seven tons of pork, immaculately brazed or not?

The smaller the details, the more I sweat over them. This race called fame will do that to you. I think now I might have been testing the wrong waters, questioning the easy choices, and ignoring the bigger ones. But it's not too late.

Is this train gon' take you there? Would it be better to walk?

Posted by morland @ 12:59 AM

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