To Dome or Not to Dome, That is the Question

Perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub

Prelude:

As a friend of mine has never once had to remind me, “Mind your own damn business.” It can seem unkind or inattentive not to ask about you but I usually err on the side of respect for privacy and personal choices. Carry on, I’ll try to be here when you need me.

I also start (nearly) every review or comment with this principle of no buttinskism lustily restated, especially when the stakes are low and we’re talking about people’s tastes or hobbies or personal preferences.

You know, “it does me no injury for my neighbour to say there are twenty gods, or no god. It neither picks my pocket nor breaks my leg.”  (cf., Jefferson’s Notes on the State of Virginia.) One’s influence might be similarly restrained in intention.  I seek neither to criticize nor coerce, even mildly. I’ve never understood social media influencers and will claim neither influence nor being much influenced. I do find it interesting to listen or see what others’ make as their offering to this brief, shining moment breathing still.

I offer views when I see friends, neighbors, acquaintances, indeed nobles taking up tasks or sharing interests that I can applaud (or not) but that may well leave me on the sidelines, not wishing to indulge.  I am obsolete and outmoded, not as a mere consequence of age but by temperament.

Fugue:

There is much talk among boot mongers of the credible sort about the upcoming Stitchdown Patina Thunderdome.  This contest advances the work of craft-builders of fine footwear, nothing like the mass-produced, to be donned by serious patrons in a self-described aging contest over a six-month period.  (If you’re actually reading this, you need neither the link nor further description.)

In this concentrated effort the objective is to wear such boots and shoes “as they were meant to be worn,” which is to say, to tell the boots to do the talkin’ about a life well-lived.  With over 30K in prizes and a clear aim to bring community into passionate participation, there’s fun to be had and a grand prize visit to Tokyo to have fit a pair of Clinch by Brass Tokyo.  (Personal nota bene, I love my Clinch and think of a visit to their shop on a Very Short Bucket List.)

There are many more prizes and a worthy sense of bringing attention to value, the principle of wabi-sabi, and just plain dude and dudette fun.  I genuinely admire the originators of the contest---huge shoutout Stitchdown, the sponsors, the craft builders, and the entire community of participants.  I believe their aims are honest, even noble---this is not mere privileged consumerism but also an expression of love for the work of cordwaining and passionate life living.  Good on ya’s.

But. I. Just. Can’t.

I will be watching, alert enough, sometimes paying close attention to every pitch, every ball taken and swing checked or made, and sometimes outta’ my seat looking for a beer and wandering the park.  I’ll be wearing my boots too but not Dome-fashion, just sorta’kinda’ normal.

I no longer compete, at least as far as that’s possible in anything.  Once obsessive about nearly any pursuit that involved competition, it didn't serve me poorly.  I made my bones in my low-stakes, often vicious, usually petty profession by presenting academic work with ginza knives at the ready, eviscerating objections and gleefully engaging in every contrarian opportunity.

I can still root for my childhood teams but can’t really care if they lose.  I want still to thrive and will encourage others to enter the fray, urge them onward in competitions that engage them but as far as possible I want nothing to do with it.  Life isn’t spectator sport, passivity is often worse than turpitude or indolence, it can be a positive detriment to one’s personal well-being and to society.  Vote.  Be passionate about what you care about.  I think I’m still that person but compete?  That no longer interests.  So, there’s that and, as I said at the outset, I have no desire to advocate my position or influence others. I am a boot tonseisha.

I like to take care of things and admit to owning many more than one pair of excellent boots.  I wear them, treasure them but no longer hoard or pamper, dawdle or spare the rod.  I will admit to late night cossets and catering to their needs (clearly, mine) but I will refrain from further lubricious descriptions.

It would not occur to me to wear my boots two days in a row unless I was traveling light.  Good leather worn well needs at least one day off to relieve itself of my diaphoretics.  If there is weather involved, I will not hesitate to use but am likely to avoid causing potential long-term offense.  I spill things, step in worse, and disdain being precious, fretful, or finical.

But at root, in the marrow of my bones, my sensibility is to protect, to make things last, to withstand the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.  It feels unseemly, mismatched to my nature to want to wear the crap out of a pair of brilliant boots over a dedicated six months.  I don’t think I could do that even if I knew I had only six months left to wear any boots.

My take-away from two years now of observing the Dome, Domers, and their Doming is that I love many of the results.  Great boots do look better, far better when well-used.  Patina is All.  “He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.” 

I hope to live long enough that all my boots reveal the salience of a life distinguished by modest success and failure, competently weathered, even tested but not more damaged than was necessary. 

My boots will obviously outlive me.  Good boots will almost certainly outlive you too even if your reckoning with the light comin’ down the tracks isn’t yet bearing down.  Do as you please.

But I think I’ve always been this way, even when I was a full shareholder in the obnoxious, often insufferable proceedings of ambition, capitalist combat, rivalry, and emulous reward.  I prefer hallowing to harrowing my leather.

It’s a good thing we’re not all the same, much less you like me, but the Dome has again taught me more about who I am and what I really want to do.  Of course, neither what will or won’t be done need be of any importance but lessons of love never fail to inform the soul looking to make the next step.

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error, and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.