Air-Brushed

May 20 2012

The ad

on glossy paper

in a magazine baited with scent

I find cloying

and objects of envy

I find annoying

earnestly reassured

the reader

he is different, unique, heroic.

“Very” unique, I suppose

since we are all unique,

some just more so.

So kudos

for stating the obvious.

For tempting the vanity

I try to resist.

The thing is

we are designed to be different.

Each one

a biological experiment,

like Jell-O thrown against the wall

to see if it sticks.

Resilience

through diversity,

in a game of genetic roulette.

So when the asteroid collides

Wall St. crumbles,

that ostracized stigmatized misfit

we snickered about

in high school

might just rescue the human race,

like drawing aces

in a high stakes game.

Not different untouchable

but different with a self-assured strut,

as the magazine ad

so flatters us.

Or maybe there will be no calamity.

He just grows up, gets older

somewhere no one knows him,

and, unexpectedly

finds love.

Things change

and there he is,

a perfect fit.

She may not look

like the models in the magazine,

air-brushed, glamorous.

And their possessions

may not be much.

But at least they won’t be seduced

by ads like these.

Will not give a damn

about seeking status,

fitting in

or out

of fashion.

Just survive, and flourish.

A modest hero

who had no plan.

This is one of those infrequent philosophical poems, an occasional indulgence. They’re tough for me, because I prefer the small and particular, the microcosm; while these play with big and ambitious themes, and can too easily become presumptuous, sanctimonious, preachy.

But this one scratches a lot of itches.

It’s dig at the delusional  world of advertising:  the absurd universe of materialism, conspicuous consumption, and status; the tantalizing idea that some new possession will transform.

The pedantic purist in me flinches at the expression “very unique”. Yet it’s not actually redundant. We are all unique; but, as in most things, there are degrees. As someone who feels like an outlier – even, at times, an alien – this thought has particular resonance for me.

I’ve done a lot of physics poems, but not so much  biology; an odd omission, for a doctor. I love this idea that we are all genetic experiments, utterly unique (that word again!) mutations and recombinations just waiting to find our niche; all tiny individual insurance plans that guarantee the resilience of the species. So even the oddest duck among us may some day find himself a swan. There is an intrinsic tension in this, because by the most fundamental design of life, we are different. Yet we seek comfort in conformity and belonging. 

And to bring this full circle, advertising also embraces and exploits this paradox:  flattering our courageous individualism; yet appealing to that powerful drive to fit in.

And a couple other itches, as well. I hate scent in magazines (Actually, I hate it most places!) And the ending isn't just that way because it rhymes (not the only reason, that is!) Too often, we think inductively, looking back and finding pattern, purpose, even destiny. But if the randomness of genetics and evolution teach us anything, it's that nothing can be planned, there is no destiny, and the idea that human beings can control much at all is mere conceit.