Stupidity

The saturation of our stupidity. The way that it’s left no part of us alone. The way that we’re through-and-through stupid. That we’re soaking with stupidity.

And yet we believe that there’s a little part of us that’s not stupid. Some small part of us in which our stupidity knows itself. In which stupidity is self-aware.

We think that’s what redeems us. When, in fact, we can have no notion of the depths of our stupidity. Of its profundities. Because to know it, truly know, would mean we were intelligent enough not to be stupid.

So how do you know that we’re not intelligent enough to grasp our stupidity?

I’m inferring it, that’s all. It’s like negative theology. It’s apophantic. We can only know our stupidity by what it is not.

By what stupidity is not? It’s not intelligent, is it? So do we know our stupidity through our intelligence?

Through an intelligence we cannot reach. That isn’t ours. Which means we’ll never know for ourselves the depths of our stupidity. The sublime depths.

Are they sublime?

They would be if we knew them. Unfortunately, we’re just left with our stupidity. It’s the echoing vault of our stupidity. Where stupidity says stupid things.

 

Stupidity, trying to sound its depths. Failing to sound its depths. Stupidity, pondering its own abyss. Failing to ponder its own abyss.

 

What makes us think that we’re especially stupid? Isn’t that a kind of hubris? I mean, why should we suppose that here’s something special about our stupidity? Something that sets it apart.

 

Our stupidity display, like the courtship display of birds of paradise. Our stupidity dance. But who are we trying to seduce? Spreading stupidity’s peacock feathers … But there’s no one there to see.

If only we had an audience. If only there were someone to laugh at us. That might justify it. But we’re amusing no one, not even ourselves.

 

Stupidity’s the only thing we have. The only thing that might save us.

From what?

From knowing our stupidity, of course.

How clever. Stupidity can’t be clever.

But there’s a cunning of stupidity. There are ruses of stupidity. Trying to pass itself off as … as what? Non-stupidity.

 

At least we’re amused by our stupidity. At least it diverts us.

From what?

From stupidity of course.

Enough! Basta!

 

Outdoing ourselves in stupidity. In our variations on stupidity. In our strange joy at stupidity.

Stupidity amuses itself. Stupidity, laughing at itself. Quite comfortable with its stupidity. And isn’t that the problem: that we’ve become comfortable with our own stupidity?

 

Drunkenly contemplating it, our stupidity. Drunkenly pleased with it and pleased with ourselves for noticing it.

This is how we entertain ourselves. This is how stupidity entertains itself, passes the hours.

Amazing that we can just entertain ourselves like this, for hour after hour. We must be really stupid …

 

The ache of our stupidity. The fact that it wants to be something else.

I don’t believe that. What would we talk about, if we weren’t stupid?

We wouldn’t need to talk, that’s the thing.

Stupidity is what we talk about. What we talk from. Stupidity is what we do. Stupidity is what holds us together. The twists and turns of our stupidity keep us alive.

 

Stupidity explosions, deep underground. Like earthquakes. Their epicentre, buried.

Stupidity bombs, dropping from the sky. Storms of stupidity, the sky darkening.

A greater stupidity. God’s stupidity, if there can be such a thing.

A roaring stupidity. An angry stupidity. Stupidity isn’t always meek. It isn’t always servile. Stupidity can roar. Can shout. Stupidity has a tempers.

And there can be peaceful stupidity, too. Sweet stupidity, lying on its back, looking up at the sky. Quiet stupidity, lying there in the water, keeping itself afloat.