Ode to Mediocrity

I wonder about mediocrity. Has anyone ever extolled the virtues of the moderately skilled? Sung the praises of middle-of-the-road, 6-of-one, luke-warm, neither this nor that, mediocre? 

Perhaps the mediocre sing, tooting their own little tarnished, second-hand horns, slightly off-key but with brilliant celebration. Half-wits and hacks. Thieves and beggars. Those who can see no higher than the horizon, and then can reach that height.

I suspect those who have aspired to something more, something original or valuable, I suspect the greatest minds, envy the attainable height of success reached only by the mediocre, whose pinnacle of success is located so much nearer to earth.

There’s the Rub

You fit for a while

and then later, you don't.

It’s hard to say when it happens.

One day you look down

Or up

Or across the dinner table

And discover that your things still fit,

your books and clothes and dishes

still inhabit the same space

But your body no longer slides easily

into that dip in the mattress.

Your mouth no longer slides smoothly

around the same old conversations.

There's the rub.

When it works

and it fits

and it’s absolutely right

it's worth all the bullshit,

until it simply isn't anymore.

Blerg

Blech, rrrrrr, arrrggg, wha? ugh ... this is my internal dialog as you are regurgitating your slightly racist, uber-conservative, religious/political rhetoric. I'm smiling, nodding, furrowing my brow thoughtfully. I'm trying to arrange my face in such a way as to give the appearance that I respect your opinion and want to have a reasonable conversation. Really, I'm tired of listening to your silly bullshit nonsense. I'm still smiling and nodding politely, but inside I want to shake my finger at you, call you names, point out how wrong you are and then walk away. 

I won't, of course, but I really want to.