Slightly Liberating

I was listening to Anthony DeMello and a line caught me sideways.

Something about how if you are that attached to being a genius, then you are actually the fool.

I had to sit with that for a second.

Because the fool in the story is not the madman raving in the corner. The fool is the one who needs to be seen as brilliant. Who has to keep the performance running. Who is quietly anxious the whole time, checking the room, wondering if the genius badge is still on, if it slipped, if someone noticed it slip.

That is a lot of work.

You are not enjoying the thought. You are guarding the reputation of the thought. You are managing a facade and calling it a mind.

And DeMello, from what I remember, sort of joked that he was a madman. Said it lightly. Like it was a relief.

That is the part that stayed with me.

Because a madman does not have to keep the facade up. There is no standard to maintain. Nobody expects the madman to be consistent, or sharp on demand, or right every time. He is allowed to be wrong. He is allowed to be weird. He is allowed to say a stupid thing at dinner and not spend the drive home replaying it.

The genius has a full time job defending the title. The madman clocked out years ago.

So I tried it on. Quietly, in my own head. Okay. Maybe I am a bit of a madman.

And it was slightly liberating.

Slightly liberating.

I noticed I said it twice, both times with the “slightly.” Which is honest. It did not blow the roof off. I did not become enlightened on the walk. Some part of me still wants the genius badge, still likes being the one who gets it, still enjoys the small warm feeling of someone thinking I am clever.

But something loosened. A notch. Not the whole grip. A notch.

I think the thing underneath it is perfectionism. The quiet ruler I hold myself against. The sense that the work has to be excellent, that I have to be excellent, that being ordinary or messy or a bit mad is some kind of failure. Being a genius is that ruler dressed up as an ambition. It sounds like aiming high. It feels like a leash.

Trading it for madman is not lowering the bar. It is dropping the audit.

The trap, obviously, is that “I am a madman” can turn into its own little costume. A cooler costume. The guy who does not care, who plays by his own rules, look how free he is. Which is just the genius game wearing a different hat. Beautiful fuckery, as usual.

So the honest version is not “I am a madman now” said with a smug little glint.

It is holding even that loosely. Wearing the madman thing the way you would wear a joke. Try it, laugh at it, put it down.

Maybe a tad mad. And fuck it. Who cares.

That was the whole thought. It was only slightly liberating.

Which, for a Tuesday, was plenty.