Being Incurious

Many years ago I wrote a column about something related to the Oregon Coast that included the epitaph I wanted carved on my headstone if I was ever to be buried in a cemetery, which I won’t: “I’d rather be dead than incurious.”

As I recall, the epitaph generated a lot of comment, especially when I wrote something to the effect that incessantly googling things doesn’t necessarily make you a curious person. That’s an easy (and immensely profitable for Google) form of satisfying one’s curiosity and is usually performed to retrieve some useless tidbit of pop culture (e.g. what year did Dirty Harry come out? Who sang “Dancing in the Moonlight”?)

I am talking about real curiosity, not trivia or a passing fancy. It has always surprised me when I meet people who evince absolutely no curiosity whatsoever about the world around them. It’s not just mere indifference or calculated ignorance; it’s simply a total lack of awareness or the ability to reflect on something outside someone’s private experience.

I count myself as one of the most curious people around. That typically goes with a writer, but not all. Some writers I used to know were only curious about their writing’s attention, not any other writers’ books. I mean, I once dated a published author and she never read a single book I wrote! I guess it bothered me at first, but then I got over it. We didn’t last long. I also once dated a fairly high profile (at least regionally) rock/country singer and knew all her albums by heart. She never bothered to read any of my writing. It was sheer lack of curiosity of what was going in my mind and heart. Oh well. We didn’t last long either.

Speaking of my writing, I always found it interesting that virtually none of my students read any of my books when I began regularly publishing them while teaching on the Oregon Coast. I can name on one hand the students who did. I know if any of my teachers had published a book while teaching me, I would have raced out to buy and read it. I wouldn’t have cared if it was a manual on repairing lawnmowers!

It has always surprised me that people can walk right by a busker or other kind of street performer and not give them a minute of their time and perhaps a donation. I always stop and listen, even if I have somewhere imperative to go. I am curious what this performer is trying to do. They are putting their talent (or lack of talent) out their for experiment, fun or survival. How can I not pay attention to that!

I think for some people living in comfortable residences, the sight of homeless people in their various states of distress or squalor or sheer incomprehensibility, was initially something that invoked a lot of curiosity but now longer does. Indeed, I think the opposite is true now.

It seems I have a knack for discovering writing left behind: journals, letters, messages on cardboard, messages written on beaches, etc. I will always engage with what looks like writing that was left behind. I can’t say I’ve ever found literary gold, more like utter anguish.

And why not have a homeless man read your Tarot cards if you are walking by with nothing to do or something to do.