A few words before bed

It is a tragedy that our first inclination as a nation is to hurt; to scream at; to mistrust; to curse. It doesn’t seem to matter to whom, or when, or for what reason. We hunker down like whipped animals, lashing out when we feel our backs are to the wall and our last scrap of food is being snatched away.

Of course, our food actually is being stolen, though not always in the literal sense. Many go hungry, but this condition is hardly a universal one, nor do I refer to any real theft of our wealth or possessions, though ample evidence of this, too, exists.

The sustenance we are consistently denied is spiritual in nature. In an age where we see no dearth of religion or its trappings, I do not believe I have ever witnessed (or even read about) quite such a bankruptcy of human warmth, tolerance or joy.

Charity has been supplanted by an almost fanatical absorption with self and the well-being of the individual, however ardently the holy writings of the world’s major religions might advocate the valuation of one’s neighbor over one’s self.

What if the true need we face as a planet is not a set of rules and regulations to which we must adhere, but rather a faith-like devotion to our own betterment as a people and a world. What if, rather than bristling with anger over someone else’s behavior because we happen to believe it immoral, it actually became possible to turn our concerns inward and our love and warmth outward rather than allowing the opposite to occur.

I do not mean to suggest that religion alone is at fault for the wrongs of Humanity. My father was a professed atheist; my mother a devout and passionate Christian. Neither demonstrated the slightest love for this planet or any of its inhabitants, my father believing we are nothing more than animals and my mother eschewing any connection with this world and focusing solely on the next. My grandparents, however, who during the last forty or fifty years of their lives never attended a church service, displayed a concern for their fellow man that would put most God-fearing folk to shame.

Clearly, religion had little to do with their goodness, nor with the outpouring of grief and friendship from so many of the people my grandparents touched when at last they lay, peaceful and quiet, in their caskets.

I take from their lives a profound lesson in kindness and the underlying goodness of Humanity. Call it a matter of faith. Though I see terrible things around me and speak to people whose primary concern has always been and always shall be themselves, I choose to believe that in the depths of the heart, the purity of childhood still lingers, waiting for us to shed the layers of cynicism and derision that we have built up around ourselves; impenetrable, calcified shells that imprison even as they protect. Only we have the power to release ourselves and breathe the free air once more, and this we must do before it is too late; before we grow so cold and insensate that we can no longer feel the cool weight of the keys we grasp in our very hands.

In honor of friends and hosts

I wrote a poem recently for a few people who hosted me at their home in North Las Vegas. These people among my dearest friends, and worthy of every praise it is possible to heap upon a person. They mean the world to me…

“To Friends”

Now that I, awash in gold-reflected light,
May ponder for a space such things tonight,
A thousand pleasant musings spring to mind
As drowsy threads from Morpheus’ spool unwind;
A warm embrace from host to treasured guest
Reminds this visitor of all that’s best;
Of friendship bonded close as sibling brood,
Of laughter shared midst fellowship and food;
Of stories told and painted pictures bright,
The warming bliss of wrongness set a-right,
For all the finest hearts and minds thus bent
Upon this week’s sweet journey fondly sent,
My fervent thanks for each of those I know,
Who shine with radiant friendship’s warming glow;
And even those I have not chanced to meet,
Whose names I know not, even these I greet.
May fortune fair and Providence each bless
Beyond the paltry words I here express,
And brighten every path for home-bound friends
As most this splendid gathering gently ends…

by the pricking of my thumb…

  It’s been a while since I put any virtual ink on this page. Life has a way of sloshing around you like the foamy waves of brown water churned up in a flood.  Hard to believe, though, that it’s been since October that I’ve had anything of substance to say. 

Maybe I still don’t, come to think of it. 5 months of long workdays, solitary weekends, friends who’ve stayed and friends who’ve gone (some of them by my own choice);  These elements can all build up until they become a calcified wall that both protects and imprisons… But these days, I’ll take the safety.

I find myself really struggling with what I’m seeing around me in the world today. How is it possible that there is even more division and strife today than there was during the past eight years? It is almost as if people have been that way for so long, they can’t remember how to be any other way. The media seems destined forever to elicit maximal pathos, drama, hatred and outrage from any incident or event, no matter how well-intentioned their target might have been.

We are in the middle of a crisis, in comparison to which our present economic woes pale in comparison. While I do not consider myself particularly religious, there are scattered bits of the Bible that I think contain wisdom.

The book of Proverbs lists 7 things that, according to the author, are hated by God; in fact, that he considers “an abomination”.

1. A proud look

2. A lying tongue

3. Hands that shed innocent blood

4. A heart that devises wicked imaginations

5. Feet that are swift in running to mischief

6. A false witness that speaks lies

7. He that sows discord among brethren

Look around you. Any of us can find numerous examples of these seven cancers feeding on the soul of Humanity itself.  What are we to do, when our very leaders (and I do not speak of one in particular, but nearly all of them;  perhaps every last one) embody the elements mentioned above? I am not naive enough to believe that these things are wrong because God dislikes them. Rather, they are wrong because they are wrong. There is a spark of awareness in each of us that allows us to differentiate between right and wrong. We are born with it and this is part of our innately precious nature.

Why then are we suffering from this crisis of conscience? Why do we look at everyone who disagrees with us with such disgust? Where has our sense of propriety, of decency, of patience and open-mindedness gone? This isn’t an American problem. It’s a global problem. 

There are still some good-hearted people out there, but all too often their goodness and love are inextricably bound to their faith, and the accompanying disdain for other faiths that their beliefs seem to demand.

Compassion mixed with blind religious ferver becomes cruelty and neglect.

Tolerance mixed with ecumenical rigidity becomes a crusade to abolish behaviors deemed abhorrant.

The love of one stranger for another evaporates when both learn of each other’s spiritual differences.

Every manifestation of The Church (regardless of which religion it might choose as its avatar), despite the clearest evidence of teachings that indicate its influence is not of this world but of another, will try to inject itself into politics, and legislate its version of the universe on everyone else. And it does this while smiling sweetly and murmuring in the world’s ear that this is for their own good, and that one day they will rejoice to have been thus forced.

If only we could plan a new world from behind that veil of ignorance John Rawls posited so long ago. How would we envision the world around usif we knew that we would have no choice, no say as to which position, which social stratum, which income level, religious affiliation or political ideology we might find ourselves born? It is easy to make moral choices for the world when you are convinced that your vision is the correct one, no matter how convenient it might seem to be that you happened to be born into it.

I have to believe that better days are ahead, for I can’t conceive of any fundamental way in which they could grow worse. The soul of Humanity is ill; perhaps deathly ill. What will we do to recover? Is there a cure, and if so, have we the courage to swallow the medicine and move on, the wiser for having lived through it?

Could it be that simple?

 

“The longer I live, the more I read, the more patiently I think, and the more anxiously I inquire, the less I seem to know…Do justly. Love mercy. Walk humbly. This is enough…”

  -  John Adams (McCullough, John Adams, 2001, p. 650)

 

Ever since the award winning HBO movie series on this, one of the greatest of our American forefathers, I’ve been intensely interested in reading about John Adams. I think, after some time of exploring and enjoying his exploits and writings, I have hit upon why his particular brand of integrity has stuck with me.

It is fascinating to me that, through the harrowing trials and mind-numbingly offensive twists and turns of this latest presidential campaign, the simple words above keep floating back to me. It isn’t only the politicians who have lost their way and now blunder aimlessly along the same rutted path they’ve always trodden; The American people themselves are trapped within that same winding spiral, which never fails to lead us right back to the center of our problems. From there the path ejects us to the outer ring where we begin the journey anew, convinced that this time will somehow be different than the last.

There is an inertia to morality, it seems to me. The sick, palsied theocratic notions that so many fancy to be at the heart of our country and the genius of our representative republic, are actually the spiritual equivalent of tetherball. No matter how forcefully the ball is hit, or in which direction, by which hand, on which day, it will always travel to the extent of its rope and circle fecklessly round and round until it stops, bound securely in its own knotted coils. How many times will we travel this road? How many times will we smash our hands against the surface of the sphere, trying to get it to fly in a straight line, before we realize that it can never do so until the ties that bind it to its pole are cut asunder?

Perhaps that seems godless to the reader. Perhaps the very thought that we are caught within a repeating loop of delusion that masquerades as morality strikes some as humanistic, atheistic, even satanic. The fact remains that there is a wide gulf between what I consider “Ethics” and what the world considers “Morality”. I’ve watched too many self-styled moral men display the most astonishing depths of ethical depravity and intolerance, and I’ve seen an equal number of truly ethical men brought down by those who were able to “prove” that they were somehow immoral when measured by the exacting standards of the scriptures (from whichever religion those writings might hail).

Again, I return to the briar patch of modern complexity.  President Adams, for all of his brilliance and erudition, was a flawed man, sometimes caught up in his own notion of vanity. Yet his knowledge, for all its extensive influence and vast utility to the United States government, paled in comparison to the simple potency of his wisdom. Underlying all of his writings is a love of the simple things, in his case: farming, writing in his journal, penning letters to his friends and spouse even as he read the same from them. He knew the importance of family, of frugality, of productivity, of ingenuity. 

He didn’t burden himself with the trappings of wealth (or so I have read). It doesn’t seem to me that he ever lost the ethical center that looked into the heavens and acknowledged that, though there might be a diety at the heart of it all, such a construct intended that we should use our minds to their utmost, and to do good while we are upon this fragile planet.

His was a mixture of liberality and conservatism in their most important and useful aspects. This was a man whose compassion and empathy; his love of Right and Truth, was matched only by his willingness to work and sacrifice for the furtherance of them.

If we could only quiet the tumult in our brains, the dissatisfaction in our spirits, the helplessness with which we seem to watch the world unfold around us, perhaps we might capture some of Adams’ essence and accomplish the great things he did, if only in our own lives. 

It has been brought home to me recently why it is that some choose to study history. History isn’t, truly, about who did what, and to whom, and on which dates. We learn from doing, but we grow wiser from observing what we -have done- and from experiencing (or watching others experience) the repercussions of our actions. 

Until we free ourselves from this revolving door which keeps flinging us into the same burning building, I don’t know if we will ever reach our true potential as a people, as a country, as a world.  I am not sure when simplicity became a thing to be avoided; when ‘provincial’ became a dirty word; when singularity of faith not in a doctrine, nor in any particular god, but in the inherent goodness and potential of Humanity became something to be put down and mortified. I know only that I mourn for that loss.

We must find within ourselves what generations of misdirection have caused to be lost. Perhaps in order to be happy, Mankind need not remain utterly simple. Perhaps through some ethical mimicry of thermodynamic law, simplicity must become more complex; order more chaotic. If that is the case, so be it. But for a long, long time, we have struggled to build a just and orderly complexity upon an unstable and unjust simplicity. Perhaps we need to return to the foundation and rethink that, rather than drawing and re-drawing the edifices built upon it.

Maybe, just maybe, one of the presidents of the United States was actually a wise and decent man. The thought seems ludicrous, doesn’t it? Still, stranger things have happened…

 

Laughter, the Lost Medicine

I was speaking with one of my best friends today online (check him out at http://blog.urbanbohemian.com) and as we talked, the subject of the 1980′s was raised. I mentioned that the decade was ridiculous in a lot of ways. We like to look back on occasion and laugh at the 80′s; the hairstyles, the fashions, the music, the movies. But I think we’ve forgotten one very important thing about the 80′s. They were transformative, and they were all about laughter. Some of the very best sitcoms on television were created during late 70′s and 80′s. Many examples spring to mind, but my intent isn’t to take everyone on a stroll through their own nostalgia. What bothers me most as I look back at the way things were is the feelings I get when I compare them to what we see today. Comedy, in some form, is everywhere, but so little of it seems to have the purity of some of that older work. We have become jaded, cynical, even cruel. If you really stop and think about it, who do we laugh at today? Others. Who is responsible for all of our unhappiness dissatisfaction? Others. Who always seem more stupid, more ignorant, less deserving of happiness than we do? Others.

In the 80′s, we laughed at ourselves. Today we laugh at others; it’s as simple as that. I wonder if it’s possible that laughter is only a curative medicine when its motives are pure. Looking around me today, I see a lot of laughter, but it’s a derisive, divisive thing. It’s the laughter of a schoolyard bully who sees the world through the darkened lens of his own insecurity and masks it with contempt for others.

Look at today’s comedians. Their schtick is laced with invective, mockery of others, the reinforcing of stereotypes, and class warfare. My gods, what ever happened to innocent little Chrissy Snow stopping outside of Jack Tripper’s bedroom door and overhearing something that horrifies her, only to find out later that she’s completely misunderstood the situation and that no one was doing anything untoward or dishonest. Today, you’d never see that sort of scene in a sitcom. The humor would come from two cheaters being caught in flagrante delicto by an outraged spouse or boy/girlfriend.

Sitcoms used to exist to make America laugh, even while teaching us lessons about situational ethics, racial interaction, ethno-religious tolerance, even politics. It drew attention to people in dire need of society’s attentions, and mocked those whose lives didn’t demonstrate a purpose purer than, say, the desperate need to score on a Friday night, or launch some devastating and snarky insult. 

Cheers, Perfect Strangers, The Cosby Show, Who’s the Boss, Family Ties, Three’s Company, Growing Pains… the list goes on. Look closely at each of those shows and a pattern starts to emerge. Families who didn’t quite fit the mold of stereotypical America. There was always a quirk; always something that might cause others to look twice and shake their heads with amusement. 

Now, I’m not trying to suggest that sitcoms today are the opposite. There are few out there that have carried on this odd but grand tradition, and make us happier, better people as a result. If you take a good, close look, however, at what passes for television and cinematic comedy these days, a startlingly different picture begins to emerge. For one thing, so-called reality television shows us daily not what America should be learning, but what they actually -have- learned. The more realistic television becomes, the less it resembles the humanity we all claim to possess. I see people sniping at each other, marriages dissolving, petty vengeance, rampant economic elitism, all bundled inextricably with the medium. It’s a bitter pill we’re all swallowing, but the laughter makes it more acceptable. 

Laughter, in the sense that we experience it today, isn’t a medicine. It’s a poison. We’re laughing for all of the wrong reasons, aren’t we? Laughter, at some point, must be able to spring from something other than mockery or derision, shouldn’t it? If it doesn’t, aren’t we in danger of succumbing to our basest urges and turning the world into another schoolyard with roving ruffians pointing their fingers at us and snickering? Or worse yet, are we in danger of -becoming- the bully, and denigrating those around us just for a laugh?

Gods help us if we have begun turning that corner, folks. The recurring mantra of a movie I once enjoyed (“Toys”, starring Robin Williams) was a phrase that rings true, to me; “Let Joy and Innocence Prevail”.

Perhaps someday it will again.

Random Writings…

I had to chuckle this morning when I re-read what I’d written Sunday evening. I was doing some laundry and sitting on the common deck area of my building around 5:30 PM with absolutely no clue as to what to write… Don’t expect to make much sense of it. Just more inane scribblings. It’s odd, though, what a series of random events and thoughts will lead you to if you allow your mind to wander. I should do it more often. So this little snippet of pondering, unfinished and only partially expressed, is what popped out of my head yesterday:

 

“This is what I write when I haven’t anything to write. These are the words that spring to mind when there are no words; when the buzzing of flies fills my head and creativity is nothing but a word sitting in a dictionary on some shelf deep within a forgotten library.”

“I hate these times. They fill me with dread and foreboding. Nothing to do but hunker down until hope comes.”

“I sit next to a swimming pool on the back deck of my building. It is Fall now and the thing really should be closed for the season. The water is still blue, but it is somehow fainter; perhaps a trick of the fading light of Summer.”

“It is empty; no one swims within. It seems lonely and forlorn, preparing for a long Winter sleep beneath a tarp. I have to resist the urge to jump into it, just to save it from its next extinction, if only for a few more hours.”

“The evening sun glints off of windows some ten stories up the building across the street. The effect is both warm and cold.”

“Yes, I do believe Summer is finally finished. At least, I hope it is. Autumn has always been my time; that part of the year that speaks to me most and fills me with its potent combination of beauty and angst.”

“The sky was a hazy blue today, but now it is a muted, dull gray. Through the clouds I see hints of the azure of before, but they are quickly vanishing into the gloaming.”

“In the distance I hear scattered voices yelling in a park for some athlete they have come to support. He might not even be that good; or she, but they are there anyway, cheering.”

“Suddenly (how do I not see it coming), as I sit I realize that a fog is rolling in from the lake. Gods, it’s fast. It has already wreathed the high buildings around me in paded obscurity.”

“There! One of them in the distance just vaniched even as I wrote the words to describe it.”

“I love the city. No where does it happen quite like it does in Chicago.”

“A bell is tolling now…odd. It’s not the top of the hour yet. The chimes come faster now; tones, music. Somewhere nearby a service is starting. People are worshipping, I suppose. It is Sunday, after all. If I strain to listen, I recognize the melody as “Fairest Lord Jesus”.

Ah, the memories that old hymn engenders; some good and some ill, from a simpler time in my youth, yes, but an unhappy one on some levels; a time when I pretended that I didn’t know things about myself that should have been plainly obvious.”

A Story: “Apparition”

 

I thought I’d share a story I wrote a couple of years ago. All rights, naturally, are reserved. 

 

“Apparition”

 

I still remember my grandmother’s chair. I remember the soft creaking of its ancient wood as she rocked before the dying embers of our fireplace. I remember her fingers flying over swaths of crimson yarn as they emerged magically from beneath glittering needles. She would hum softly; haunting songs that floated upon the silken whiskey of her voice; ancient rhymes set to tunes we’d never heard before.

Ah, that sweet humming. It had always been the most comforting sound in the world to me. At the precocious age of 12, how could I be blamed for idolizing her? Nanna had been an elegant and simple woman, wise beyond anyone I’d ever known.

What did it matter that she could barely read and had learned nothing of mathematics or science? She could feel foul weather approaching in her very bones. She told us once that she could hear the pumpkins growing in the patch and we believed her, for she always seemed to know just the right time to go out and pick them, plump and fragrant and brilliant orange, from their thick vines. 

She could conjure wondrous meals from the ingredients hidden deep in cupboards or stashed away in the dim, cool pantry. She could brew powerful medicines that chased away summer colds, scattering them to the winds like dried daffodils. 

She had been the embodiment of all things familiar, all things loving, all things happy, from the even rise and fall of her shawl-covered breast to the delicate clicking of the sewing instruments moving between her warm, wrinkled fingers.

One day the humming stopped. As I think back, it seems to me that at some point Nanna just started fading away, but it has been so long ago that now that the details of her passing are nothing more than a mist diminishing to nothingness; a dream of surpassing sweetness dispersed by the light of dawn.

But I remember her.