On Irredeemable Writing

"Some say it's just a part of it;

we've got to fulfill the book" (Bob Marley)

At no time had I attempted more than a certain portrait, or a presentation of a certain spirit. If I have forced the meaning ... of the author (which I do not grant without queery [sic]) I have not forced it beyond the character of the author. ~ Ezra Pound

What, exactly, is the "character" of an author? One may speak of style, certainly, and even a sort of uncanny autobiographical element that creeps into the text. Take, for example, Donna Tartt's overwhelming display of nearly bygone virtuosity. She writes, in a section of her text, The Goldfinch, that made me nod my head in agreement, as though the words were her own and not the inner mental meanderings of her opiate-addicted main character:

But depression wasn't the word. This was a plunge encompassing sorrow and revulsion far beyond the personal: a sick, drenching nausea at all humanity and human endeavor from the dawn of time. The writhing loathsomeness of the biological order. Old age, sickness, death. No escape for anyone. Even the beautiful ones were like soft fruit about to spoil. And yet somehow people still kept fucking and breeding and popping out new fodder for the grave, producing more and more new beings to suffer like this was some kind of redemptive, or good, or even somehow morally admirable thing: dragging more innocent creatures into the lose-lose game. Squirming babies and plodding, complacent, hormone-drugged moms. Oh, isn't he cute? Awww. Kids shouting and skidding in the playground with no idea what future Hell awaited them ... (p. 476)

I would be a liar if I said I'd never experienced those same thoughts / revulsions. This is, of course, classic existentialism, fully expressed in the "heat of the moment," as it were. So do we separate author from character(s); reader from author; dramatic expressions from personally held views? I simply can't say.

The "dry spell" in my writing that I am now experiencing is not due to lack of external stimuli (perhaps too much). It is that my Romantic vision of the great writer has not gone away. Irving Babbitt -- whose work I read about 30 years agao -- still sticks in my craw. My old Professor Bloom, a self-proclaimed "Jewish Gnostic," tried his best to turn Yahweh (Jehovah) into a literary character equal to Agamenmnon or Iphigeneia. Such foolishness is, at best, ignored; but if one must read (for your syllabi, this nut-case) , I'l quote Bob Marley: "emancipate yourself from mental slavery ..."

We live now in an age in which anyone can get published instantly. And the politically correct response to the "mushroom" works (for they pop up like those wonderful fungi after storm) -- unless the work in question is a neo-Aryan screed or a call for jihad -- is to do exactly what the baby-lovers in Tartt's unforgettably sarcastic section effuse: "Oh, isn't [s/he] cute. Awww." There is nothing admirable about lack of talent, which is why I avoid like the plague so-called "slams" (poetry and writing). A writer is not -- goddamnit! -- a performer but a quiet visionary, one who criticizes life while loving it at the same time.

I took a walk in the woods this morning with my girlfriend (she is quite an intellectual herself) and we marveled at how childish we'd become. We fed the ducks and the geese, admired a hidden stream that you'd need x-ray eyes to find, so deeply hidden was it in the verdure. We watched a blue heron catch fish -- inevitably pulling out our phones to take photos (yes, even the most nature-loving of us invade that territory with our diabolical "smart" phones, caveat lector); and we, of course, fed the little critters with crackers and stale bread that we'd brought. So what is there really to write about? My experience was of evolution at its current stage -- laughing, as I did, at the antics of the geese and ducks -- nevertheless, I saw nothing but life emerging: beautiful, innocent, lively, ready for a row (geese can become quite unsociable). My girlfriend (bless her sweet heart) on the other hand saw the -- ahem -- hand of god at work in all of this. But there is no need to put god in the center of a perfectly realized natural event. This is not to say that we remain stone-cold in the face of natural beauty, no less than I remain immune to the beauty of The Beatles singing "Hey Jude" (as I write this), nor fail to shed a tear -- as I did last night when I read, to my girlfriend, Santayana's poem on reaching the age of 50. As the late, great Christopher Hitchens wrote: "We [atheists] are not immune to the lure of the wonder and mystery and awe: we have music and art and literature, and find that the serious ethical dilemmas are better handled by Shakespeare, and Tolstoy and Schiller and Dostoyevsky and George Eliot than in the mythical morality tales of the holy books" (God is not Great, p. 5).

The world assaults us on all sides with beauty: a hidden stream; a woman slowly removing her Herrickian silken clothes; a piano solo by Bobby Timmons, a poem like this one:

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,

But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,

Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;

And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,

Yea hungry for the lips of my desire:

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

~ Ernest Dowson, Cynara

So to answer my own semi-rhetorical question: the character of an author ranges from opportunistic spouters of whatever sells, to genuine artists like Donna Tartt. But some dwell in the middle: this guy - Yours Truly -- who, like the character in Le Fanu's tale -- has the red bright eyes always upon him, demanding ...

Well, if I knew what was demanded of me, I'd write the motherfucker. Until then, I spout what I spout ...

* * * * *

I feel forced, often, to write what needs to be heard: a critique of Mormonism (a waste of time); a defense of the the numerous neglected, oppressed and suppressed young ladies in the Middle Eastern countries, who will never exerperiece the life-changing thrill of a first kiss ... The women and children getting their arms and legs chopped off by Boko Haram in nothern Nigeria ... the young men getting mutilated (sexually), and burned alive by these followers of the One God.

But when one snorts klonopin and tops it off with a nice strong beer, these things tend to fix their disapproving gazes far away, like on the other side of my wall, where Gimli and Legolas are now dancing a waltz.

In closing, all you "clean" people out there, who've never taken the smokey path of mental dissolution while rockin' out to the Dead -- you know not the glories of mental exit.

Sometimes I wonder if I've been forced, as Ezra Pound put it, beyond my character as an author. But, briefly -- before I do another line -- allow me to get recondite for a moment. The Greek term kharaktêr (Hebrews 1:3) often translated as "express image," is one of the key the Catholic texts supporting the dogma of the Trinity, if one cares to do the the homework (and asuming one knows koinê Greek [going to extinction in America]) ... Anyway, before this pill-addled drunk runs out of steam, I shall give you this.

But the Son of God is the Logos of the Father, in idea and in operation; for after the pattern of Him and by Him were all things made, the Father and the Son being one. And, the Son being in the Father and the Father in the Son, in oneness and power of spirit, the understanding and reason (nous kai logos) of the Father is the Son of God. But if, in your surpassing intelligence, it occurs to you to inquire what is meant by the Son, I will state briefly that He is the first product of the Father, not as having been brought into existence (for from the beginning, God, who is the eternal mind [nous], had the Logos in Himself, being from eternity instinct with Logos [logikos]); but inasmuch as He came forth to be the idea and energizing power of all material things, which lay like a nature without attributes, and an inactive earth, the grosser particles being mixed up with the lighter. (Athenagoras, A Plea for the Christians 10 [ANF 2]).

Such mythology is maudlin. The fact that it brings tears to my eyes means nothing. There is nothing special about humanity except to say that Janet Koh sucks; that nature and animals deserve our protection; that there is nothing more satisfying than monogamy: Kurt Cobain (rest his soul) often attested to the erotic fulfillment of monogamy (even with Courtney Love; imagine that!). In all fairness, there is not a single sentence in the Book of Mormon that remotely suggests polygamy. Yet we know, as historical record, that both Joseph Smith (still looking for those gold plates, bossman) and Brigham Young not only condoned but encouraged (especially the latter) the practice of marrying little chickadees still playing with their dolls and learning how to braid their hair (cf. "Mormonism and Polygamy" on wikipedia.org). Yet I must play fair, and in the spirit of intellectual honesty I will give you this:

Wherefore, my brethren, hear me, and hearken to the word of the Lord: For there shall not any man among you have save it one wife; and concubines he shall have none" (Jacob 2:27).

I don't feel like writing anymore, except to leave you to (hopefully) sing this with me:

"Won't you help me sing,

Redemption songs,

It's all I've ever had ...

These songs of freedom." (Bob Marley)

The Good Myth Lollipop

Lest anyone think that I am one of those militant atheists who take great pleasure in demeaning the god-based faith of others, think again. For many years I was a Professor of Philosophy (Patristics) at an Orthodox Theological Seminary, and most of my published work has been studies of the ancient Church Fathers. My claim to "fame," in fact, is Origen of Alexandria (http://www.iep.utm.edu/origen-of-alexandria/) among numerous other, more personally interpretive writings. That being said, I'd like to follow up my last brief post with some positive comments on Christianity. The first includes the concept of the person or hupostasis in Greek. St. Gregory of Nyssa tells it better than I am able. Here he is:

For as in our own life artificers fashion a tool in the way suitable to its use, so the best Artificer made our nature as it were a formation fit for the exercise of royalty, preparing it at once by superior advantages of soul, and by the very form of the body, to be such as to be adapted for royalty: for the soul immediately shows its royal and exalted character, far removed as it is from the lowliness of private station, in that it owns no lord, and is self-governed, swayed autocratically by its own will; for to whom else does this belong than to a king? And further, besides these facts, the fact that it is the image of that Nature which rules over all means nothing else than this, that our nature was created to be royal from the first. For as, in men's ordinary use, those who make images of princes both mould the figure of their form, and represent along with this the royal rank by the vesture of purple, and even the likeness is commonly spoken of as a king, so the human nature also, as it was made to rule the rest, was, by its likeness to the King of all, made as it were a living image, partaking with the archetype both in rank and in name, not vested in purple, nor giving indication of its rank by sceptre and diadem (for the archetype itself is not arrayed with these), but instead of the purple robe, clothed in virtue, which is in truth the most royal of all raiment, and in place of the sceptre, leaning on the bliss of immortality, and instead of the royal diadem, decked with the crown of righteousness; so that it is shown to be perfectly like to the beauty of its archetype in all that belongs to the dignity of royalty. (On the Creation of Man IV.1)

Pardon this rather lengthy quote, but it suffices to show one of the great forward strides made by Christianity in the history of humanistic thought: namely, the autonomy and unrecallable dignity of the human person; a notion entirely absent from pagan Greco-Roman thought. I recall, years ago, when I began writing my doctoral dissertation (https://books.google.com/books/about/Origen_of_Alexandria_and_St_Maximus_the.html?id=MmMV9P3jMn0C&hl=en) that my labelling of Origen as a "Christian humanist" drew much fire, at the various conferences at which I presented my early chapters. To this day, I believe that one can be a "sky godder" and a humanist at the same time -- only it takes a hell of a lot more work than just admitting that there is no Sky King and getting on with the business of living.

Another reason to admire the early Fathers was their facility at debate: that powerful exercise of our thought that places war and torture in the background, and mutual respect in the foreground. Justin Martyr was a fine debater -- yes, he resorted to ad hominem, but that was the style of the age -- and took upon himself the herculean task of learning about his opponents' positions before attacking them. How often do we see that today? Here is Justin, in one of his finest moments:

In my helpless condition [self-doubt about god and the cosmos] it occurred to me to have a meeting with the Platonists, for their fame was great. I thereupon spent as much of my time as possible with one who had lately settled in our city,--a sagacious man, holding a high position among the Platonists,--and I progressed, and made the greatest improvements daily. And the perception of immaterial things quite overpowered me, and the contemplation of ideas furnished my mind with wings, so that in a little while I supposed that I had become wise; and such was my stupidity, I expected forthwith to look upon God, for this is the end of Plato's philosophy.(Dialogue with Trypho, ch. 2)

How many Mormons or Jehovah's Witnesses or Muslims or even Hindus do we know today who spend time studying with scholars of opposing -- or at least divergent -- beliefs? Years ago, I met a Turkish Muslim at a conference at a Greek Orthodox Seminary who was there to learn what not to believe. There was no debating with this kind and quiet fellow: he would smile, nod, and say, "very interesting." I highly doubt that Justin's time spent with the unnamed Platonist was quite as mild.

And finally this, from the admittedly obscure Anastasius of Sinai: "theosis [i.e., the deification or becoming god-like of the person] is the ascension toward what is better – it is neither a diminution nor an alteration of nature. In other words, by theosis man will not cease being man; he will simply become perfect man" (quoted in Moore [2009], 'The Christian Neoplatonism of St. Maximus the Confessor': http://www.quodlibet.net/articles/moore-maximus.shtml [note 36]). Contrast this with the preachings of so many mainstream and even out-of-the-way "bible" churches that tell us that a complete absorption into the godhead is our ultimate fate. I mean, by that, spending a eternity praising a creator who has allowed so much of hell to appear in his Eden.

Do We Need Another Mythology?

A certain woman I know is what one might call a "seeker": she seeks a spiritual ground upon which to stand firmly, her heart beating mightily, but her blessed intellect given over entirely to god. The intellect (nous, in Greek) is today given short shrift -- not because of its latent power to uncover cosmic and terrestrial "mysteries" (we all know the amazing discoveries in astrophysics in recent years), but rather because many are afraid of what Archibald MacLeish memorably descibed as "...the black pall / Of nothing, nothing, nothing -- nothing at all" ("The End of the World").

The intellect, when left alone by the Big God in the Sky, will tell you -- mind and heart -- that we are definitely not "fearfully and wonderfully made" (Psalm 139:14) but rather just a tad short of cursed. Recall these words of Kierkegaard: "Hear the cry of the mother at the hour of giving birth, see the struggle of the dying at the last moment, and say then whether that which begins and that which ends like this can be designed for pleasure." But of course there is pleasure in life: the album by Chick Corea to which I am now listening; the softess of my girlfriend's hands; the three little birds outside my window, singing to me a message of love ... But why must we allow these things to be subordinated to the power-hungry monster in the sky?

In the classic defense of atheism, The God Delusion (2006), Richard Dawkins observed (as Gore Vidal did before him) that the Old Testament god is the most unpleasant character in all fiction (Harold Bloom thought otherwise; but he also thought that Poe and Tolkien sucked -- so much for him as a critic). What amazes me is the profound (I'd prefer to say profoundly stupid) excuses that believers give for the genocidal mania of this so-called god. Needless to say, a god who demanded totaI war against unoffending nations is the last thing we need to study today.

I recently spent a very disturbing afternoon discussing theology with two Mormons. After politely listening as they explained their myth -- which I will not even begin to summarize here; instead go to: http://www.patheos.com/Library/Mormonism.html. I asked them (not quite politely) if what the world needs now is another mythology, instead of a more devout attitude towards science, philosophy, history, and the humanities? They had no adequate answer, as one would expect; but they did point me to this passage from the Book of Mormon (clearly directed at me):

Behold, I [the angel Moroni] am laboring together with them [unbelievers, Yours Truly] continually; and when I speak the word of God with sharpness they tremble [I was far from trembling, I assure thee, my brethren] and anger against me [I wasn't angry, just sadly amused]; and when I use no sharpness they harden their hearts against it; wherefore, I fear lest the Spirit of the Lord hath ceased striving with them.

For so exceedingly do they anger that it seemeth me that they have no fear of death ... (Moroni 9:4-5)

The potent arrogance of this passage -- and the context of its usage -- aside, whoever wrote this magnificent piece of modern mythology obviously misunderstood atheism. Atheists have no fear of death -- for there is nothing to fear! Oblivion, especially for those who suffer from depression, addiction, poverty, abuse, is a blessing if ever there was one! Further, sharp words demanding that I accept your god only make me feel sharp myself, and ready to get into a down-and-dirty debate. Alas! One cannot really debate with brainwashed people. They just smile and quote from their scriptures. Such people should have no place in modern society -- unless they change their views. Yes, that sounds fascistic; but hey -- if it works ...

I would say the same words as Dawkins, in reference to this problem (and it is a problem: the fact that otherwise intelligent people -- and the Mormons to whom I spoke were far from stupid -- spend their time studying either an authentic Bronze Age / Roman era set of texts, or a recent fabrication by a bona fide loon, instead of putting their considerable mental power to the service of science and human progress in general). Here is Dawkins: "I am not in favor of offending or hurting anyone just for the sake of it. But I am intrigued and mystified by the disproportionate privileging of religion in our otherwise secular societies" (The God Delusion, p. 27).

It is very dangerous to give equal voice to a Harvard-trained scientist and a believer in an angel named Moroni (an apt name). Let us, instead of attending Wednesday night bible studies, go to lectures or symposia by academically trained scientists, philosophers, cultural critics, et cetera. Keep the religionists out, and let the free thinkers in. Am I pissing on the First Amendment? You bet. 'Tis time to shut up the religionists. Not out of hatred, but out of respect for the complex and highly intelligent beings that we are (most of us, at least). One can only imagine the cultural change in this country if believers finally learned that there is no god, and gave their mental powers to the actual physical -- for we are purely physical beings (the soul is a myth) -- needs of our fellow humans.

As I write this, I am listening to NPR discuss the Pope's new enclyclical on climate change. Why anyone living in the twenty-first century would pay a stick of attention to what a believer in a virgin birth has to say about anything baffles and sickens me. The Pope should stick to preaching about the Assumption and stay out of politics. Let us rid ourselves of mythology. Understand that Christ has no more reality than Zeus or Kali or Thor.

It is time for us, as a society, to grow up. As unpleasant as the thought of a life that begins and ends with suffering (to recall Kierkegaard's words) certainly is, we must be strong enough -- intellectually -- to accept that reality. And in the meantime, let us do what we do best: learn about our world, and leave mythology behind.

Against the Seventh Day Franchisers

© Edward Moore, S.T.L., Ph.D. patristics@gmail.com

For Christianity did not embrace Judaism, but Judaism Christianity, that so every tongue which believeth might be gathered together to God.

(Epistle of Ignatius to the Magnesians, ch. 10, "Against the Judaizers")

Billions of people proclaim to be Christians today, yet how many of them know anything more than what their poor biblical translations and under-educated pastors tell them? Not much. For many years my opinion of the Seventh Day Adventists had been that they were merely misguided Judaizers, yet active in their community, and basically living a "Christian life" (whatever that means). But my recent experience at a Seventh Day Adventist "Church" in New Brunswick, NJ has taught me otherwise. Now perhaps not all Adventists are as odious as the ones I encountered in my visit. Before I go into my description of my experience and attendant diatribe, I will provide some theological reasons for why this group is simply wrong.

Further, He says to them, “Your new moons and your Sabbaths I cannot endure.”Ye perceive how He speaks: Your present Sabbaths [i.e., the Jewish Sabbath] are not acceptable to Me, but that is which I have made, [namely this,] when, giving rest to all things, I shall make a beginning of the eighth day, that is, a beginning of another world. Wherefore, also, we keep the eighth day with joyfulness, the day also on which Jesus rose again from the dead. And when He had manifested Himself, He ascended into the heavens.

This rather esoteric passage from chapter 15 of the Epistle of Barnabas is only difficult for those who have not followed the history of the notion of "the eight day." I will not take up space with Philo of Alexandria (a Platonizing Jew roughly contemporaneous with St. Paul) who made a fine argument for cosmic reasons for the Sabbath. Instead, I shall provide a brief synopsis of the authentic Christian doctrine of the Sabbath, as put forth by the earliest Church Fathers (whom hardly any Christians read anymore, except Catholics and Orthodox)

To begin, Christ rose from the dead on a Sunday, not a Saturday. The incarnation of Christ was a major event, no doubt, but his resurrection caused everyone, I imagine, to have shat their pants. This is why an all-around change of mind concerning the Sabbath occurred. The history of the conflict between Judaizing Christians and the more "liberal" Pauline followers of The Way is far too complex to deal with here, but a quote from an early Church Father will suffice:

[We] and the Greeks know the same God, though not in the same way, he will infer thus: “Neither worship as the Jews; for they, thinking that they only know God, do not know Him, adoring as they do angels and archangels, the month and the moon. And if the moon be not visible, they do not hold the Sabbath, which is called the first [i.e. Sunday] (Clement of Alexandria, Stromata IV.5)

This statement from the wise Clement shows that even though early Christians observed Christ's Resurrection on Sunday, some of them still practiced it according to Jewish Tradition, that is, if the moon was not visible, the Sabbatical customs could not be observed (literally and figuratively, I suppose; the nights were pretty dark back then). Christians back then (first and second centuries) were well aware that a major change had occurred in the cosmos: the divine logos had come to earth, fulfilled the old Law and set free the souls who who were laboring in darkness (the Gentiles) and opened the gates of Heaven for all who would follow Christ. The absence of the moon, in other words, doesn't means a rat's ass to those who are attuned to the spiritual musical of Christ. The numerous warnings against "Judaizing" in many of the early followers -- Ignatius, Polycarp, Barnabas, and others) -- shows that a true Christians worships Christ, and through Him, the Father. The day of the Lord's Resurrection is the new Sabbath, a change of cosmic course, if you will. For a Christian, nothing can be holier than the day that their savior rose from the dead, which is called the "eighth day," for it occurred outside of ordinary human time.

This was a very brief explication, and I'm sure to get some nasty mail from Seventh Day Adventists. Don't waste your time, please. I am an atheist but I know Christian theology better than most Cardinals. Now, on to the disgusting thing called "worship" that I recently witnessed at a Seventh Day Adventist -- and these are the actual words of the "pastor" -- franchise. The first thing I saw as I entered the place were a bunch of children being handed collection baskets. As my girlfriend and I proceeded through the nest of sweaty humanity (the air conditioning was either off or not working -- on a 98 degree day, where we live). We finally squeezed our mutually diminutive bodies into a pew and began to listen. Some typical prayers were spit out; but I was appalled that no prayers were given for the victims of ISIS, nor for our soldiers who are home but changed forever. Instead, the prayers were all for Mrs. So-and-So who is having surgery or for Mr. Such-and-Such who has a bad back. No prayers for the torture victims in Nigeria; no prayers for the soldiers dying horrifically overseas; no prayers for those who suffer from addiction; no prayers for pregnant teens; no prayers for those gunned down by tough-guy cops. As I writhed in the rather uncomfortable pew, trying not to stand up and express myself in a multilingual set of obscenities, the straw finally fell on my fragile back.

The pastor -- a well-dressed and very un-pious man -- began encouraging the "brothers" and "sisters" to keep the "franchise" alive by donating heartily. I may be an atheist, but I know that a church is not a franchise, but a community of those who have been called out by God (ekklêsia). The Greek terms means "the calling out that gathers us together" -- and God's the one who does the calling (for those who believe). A church is a home for all Christians, a place where we leave the seven-day week and enter the eighth day where the blessed Christ reigns.

The pastor announced that a vote was about to be taken, to decide whether two new Adventist believers should be allowed to join the congregation. At this point I lost my temper -- a VOTE!!! Is this a church or a political caucus? -- took my girlfriend by the hand, and angrily exited that den of stupidity and avarice.

My open question here, then, is why has a place originally intended for the comfort and spiritual health of the human person become a fucking franchise, like a McDonald's. Again, I'm an atheist, but I respect genuine love for God and fellow humans. This disgusting church made to want to give up my breakfast. So, you Adventists out there, explain yourselves.

Jennifer Koh's Languid Beethoven Interpretation

The great nineteenth-century violinist and composer Henri Vieuxtemps took less than two weeks to learn Beethoven's deeply personal D major violin concerto (opus 61). The performance by Jennifer Koh at the Caramoor Festival in Katonah, NY (July 19, 2015) is painful evidence, for me, that Romanticism is cold in the ground. Koh remarked in a pre-concert interview that she had to walk away from the concerto for six years, in order to purge herself (I suppose) of the accrued influences of the ages. Would that she had not! Her lack of vibrato, slides, and position changes, and other expressive devices of the great Romantics and their heirs, up to and including Perlman, Shaham, and even Kremer, were absent or barely audible. I recall with immense pleasure hearing, as a child, a recording played for me by my grandfather, of Grumiaux singing -- not just playing! -- this astounding piece of music. One can only imagine how Vieuxtemps must have opened the piece: silvery lines slinking like enchanted serpents through the Arcadian lushness of the orchestra. Oh well. Jennifer Koh might as well have been a computer, spitting out the data pumped into her by some unimaginative programmer. It is sad, because I adore this concerto, and I recall the days of yore when I attempted -- and failed -- to perform it myself. It is no easy task to sing Beethoven's notes. Yet here we are, in a day and age in which lovely women with little talent gain attention for simply looking fine on the concert platform, damn the performance. A notable exception, of course, is Julia Fischer: beautiful but overwhelmingly gifted with the voice of the ages. Listen, if you'd like to recover from Koh's languid performance, to this fine example of the decaying Romantic art. We need a necromancer, a true master of the black arts, to raise Classical music once again to the demanding, sensual, and even subversive artform that it once was, and should be. I regret wasting the better part of my Sunday evening listening to Koh drag her tender heels through one of the most verdant soundscapes of the repertoire.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_N15_3_TP7I

Something Deeply Personal, but not Maudlin (I think)

What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.

~ Sylvia Plath

Nobody likes a sob story, so I shall try not to torment my reader with sobbing, moaning, or whimpering. Yet here is something indicative of the United States of Armed-Buzz-Cutted-Uniformed-Officer-Worshipping-Nonthinkers. To get deeply personal, I am in treatment for bipolar disorder and alcoholism; I have been for some time. After my divorce (2010) I made two (obviously) unsuccessful suicide attempts, swam into the deepest ocean of booze I could find, had unprotected sex (thank whatever maker-critter that exists that I am not dying of something slow and creeping), and picked fights with guys much bigger and more agile than I. But I continued to read, write, and even lecture. Through it all, my ex-wife never once dropped me a line to ask about the piece of phosphorescent detritus that my life has become. So be it. However, one bright day, as I sat in my favorite spot by the lake, guzzling from a bottle of cheap gin and reading Keats, I finally decided to put a stop to the decline -- I called the Alcoholics Anonymous hotline and entered a rehabilitation clinic. That was back in 2013. Sure, there have been relapses since then, but for the most part I have remained sober. Yet under the miscropscopic and, yes, well-meaning care of the psychiatric professionals who treated me, it came to light that I am bipolar. Anyone who doesn't know what that means, well, google it. But the short version is this: I get happy and energetic for a day or two, and then I fall into a deep pit of despair and I want to die. So I am on medication and I go to therapy every week; I attend support groups and even -- despite my atheism -- go to A.A. meetings and say the Serenity Prayer with all the other depserate men and women who are taking it one miserable day at a time. I continue to write and have recently done a pretty fun lecture on Hemingway and a few other greats, near-greats, and ingrates of the literary world of the not-too-distant past. Anyway ...

A few days ago I had a notably horrible day. I awoke from a vivid dream of my ex-wife: a love-making scene that lingered after waking -- I could still smell her shampoo and taste her daffodil flesh. The dark corridor of my building was filled with the scent of pot smoke, and someone was arguing in an adjacent apartment. I walked outside, lit a cigar, and felt like every motion was an exercise not merely in futility but in cosmic mockery. I felt as though my very existence was an affront to everything that flourishes under the sun. I called my psychiatrist and went in for a very long session. We talked at great length, and she encouraged me to attend a performance of the student orchestra at the local university, which I did -- after asking a woman old enough to be my mother to go with me (but that is an ongoing drama with little bearing on this account). It was a nice time: Mozart's 14th symphony, rather languid but pleasing. When I returned home, I drank a few beers, took a few klonopin, and went to sleep. The days meandered: I read a new Clive Barker book, nothing deep, and listened to a lot of Art Blakey and even some Sun Ra. And now for the kicker ...

Just a short while ago, as I was finishing my dinner, a knock came at my door, and when I opened it I was shocked to see two burly armed police officers and a petite, unthreatening woman staring me down. She was a representative of the clinic where I go for my psychiatric treatment, there to check up on me (fair enough). But what bothered me was the two grim-faced officers, hands on weapons, staring at me like I was a criminal. So Edward being Edward, I asked them if they were planning to shoot me in the back. They didn't answer, so I said, "Oh, you won't shoot me, I'm not black." Again, no response, just threatening stares. After assuring the woman that I was not planning to harm myself or anyone else, I demanded that they leave my apartment. They did not immediately did so, as they should have by law. Instead, they made me wait while the woman called her "supervisor" to report the outcome of the visit. Shortly thereafter -- after the armed goons looked around my private residence -- they left.

Is this the United States I am living in? Apparently, one cannot have a mental illness without trigger-happy conformists showing up at one's door whenever they feel like it. In case you haven't figured it out, I despise cops. Anyone who wants to walk about armed and have the power to incarcerate one's fellow citizens should not be permitted to do so. Only the truly caring, altruistic ones among us ... Oh wait, where the fuck are they?

So here I am, in early middle age, looking down a barrel of hopelessness. I have no woman in my life, no real friends, no career any longer ... Shit, I don't even have a cat (landlord won't let me). Why do I write, and care. I picked up a book about Pope Francis today, planning to review it. But who will care? I'd like to say "fuck it" and stop at the liquor store before it closes (I have about an hour). Someone said that every writer writes for some one special person. I write for my ex-wife. She was the goddess who painted the world with the ever-shifting colors of her diverse, fascinating mind ... and tantalized me with the liquid silk of her clothes and the delicate arches of her feet, that made the ground grow rigid at her touch, as I still do -- albeit an imaginary touch.

Upon Julia's Clothes

BY ROBERT HERRICK

Whenas in silks my Julia goes,

Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows

That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see

That brave vibration each way free,

O how that glittering taketh me!

The Ruin (Part I.)

Anglo-Saxon Poem (ca. 750 C.E.)

Translation © 2015 Edward Moore

[Allegory is a neglected art nowadays. Chester, England, and the memory of She Who is Dearest saturates these lines: only part of the surviving fragmentary poem, which I plan to translate in full in the coming weeks, is plastered here today. -- E.M.]

Well-wrought were these walls, ruined by fate

Once proud work of giants pulled down

Now without roof, nothing remains

But pock-marked bricks, broken and strewn about

To tell of the great age when mighty men

Consigned now to the crusty ground

Made these monuments -- Alas! they are

Gripped by the unforgiving earth

Upon which now walks another race,

Until the long count of years

Overwhelms them too.

Many lives of men this wall outlasted

Battle-stained and storm-wracked

Withstood the onslaught of glory-seekers

But now it bows to the ground.