For a couple of days now, I’ve wanted to write something funny. There was a time when I wrote nothing but funny things: dry and droll mockeries of the sort best exemplified by Umberto Eco.
Now, I can’t seem to write anything funny. It’s ironic because I’m so much mellower now than I was in my younger years. I think it simply has to do with the fact that I’ve lost my appetite for derision. Somewhere along the way, using humor to vent an implacable, inexplicable anger has lost its appeal.
Besides that, one of the results of the drastic simplification of my life is the loss of subject matter upon which to train withering scorn. It’s occurred to me time and again to satirize yoga—and there’s a lot to satirize, as with anything that’s taken seriously by millions of people—but I genuinely worry about being misunderstood by fellow practitioners and instructors. For better or for worse, I have to live with the consequences of being in a position of some consequence: my words carry the significance of someone held to be an authority to a certain degree.
Also, it smacks of a certain ingratitude to mock the very thing which provides one’s living (unless it’s precisely one’s living that requires one to make a mockery of things—the sort of living best exemplified by Umberto Eco’s).
So until I can find something else upon which to direct my irreverence, I’ll have to stick to these solemn, reflective little pieces.