Moment of the Trip

While watching an exceptional performance of Shakespeare's "All's Well That Ends Well," Helena (the leading protagonist who spends most of the play vying for the love of Bertram who isn't interested in her until realizing his folly at the end of the play) looked straight at me in the audience and delivered the following lines directly to me:

O, were that all! I think not on my father;
And these great tears grace his remembrance more
Than those I shed for him. What was he like?
I have forgot him: my imagination
Carries no favour in't but Bertram's.
I am undone: there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. 'Twere all one
That I should love a bright particular star
And think to wed it, he is so above me:
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though plague,
To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart's table; heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour:
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his reliques. Who comes here?

And she looked away saying the last words.



It gave me chills and perplexed me.

I can tell you all this right now -

Everything I write is a confessional. Every action, every word... everything. Were that it weren't... were that it was easy, that my life flowed from me like an easy meadering brook. But instead, I feel a constant need to instead tear each thing out of me in pieces. This is how things come from me. The alternative is absence, silence, or neglect.

The advantages (or disadvantages, as you see it) of this, is the intimacy of it. I can't help but feel the weight of what I do in almost the same light as Sartre writes of the "anguish" of how each decision in life matters as we would life as if we were living for every man. There is a weight, a heaviness, a seriousness even in my humor and comedy.

I am alienated, and I can say I've been thus all my life since I can remember. But don't mistake that for emotional distance. That is something else. I carry my emotions close to my chest and feel quite heavy the weight of what transpires around me and with me. As much as I may write about distance, alienation, and meaninglessness or the collapse of meaning... do not forget that the weight of all comes from a real emotional place and I feel this all come forth as a confession, an inescapable will to testify. I can't feel shame for it, despite knowing this discomfort this may put others in. It is my being.

The Curious Case of Howard Mumma's book about Albert Camus and Christianity

Several days ago I finished reading a book written by an American pastor who claims to have come close to converting Albert Camus to Christianity near the end of his life. While most of what Mumma says is plausible, I think he greatly misunderstood Camus's "pilgrimage" toward delving into religious studies and extrapolates an "end point" for what Camus was doing that doesn't necessarily follow.

Most people might read the book trying to extrapolate whether or not Camus was well on the path of becoming a good new born Christian. Even if what is said in the book is completely true, I don't believe that Camus would be a "Christian" in the sense that most Christians are.

Camus was suffering greatly at the sense of emptiness that pervades a life built upon absurdity. If we have nothing but the world we make in a world filled with horrible evils of suffering (like the Holocaust), even a life where meaning is built upon revolt can be exhausting. Camus was looking for something more to life, more of a connection. His self-described pilgrimage doesn't strike me as an attempt to escape the wearying emptiness of living in constant awareness of the absurdities of life, but rather as a spiritual journey to connect with the existence he had in a different way.

I noticed several things in the conversations Mumma had with Camus. Camus was most engaged with the mythological aspects of the Bible. He liked the stories. Keeping in mind that Camus did his master's thesis on Greek philosophy, engaging in Christian mythology for Camus is similar to the tasks of engaging Greek mythology and stepping into the myths as he had done with Sisyphus, Prometheus, and others.

Camus touches on the problem of theodicy, or how can an omnipotent, benevolent God allow evil in the world? Mumma makes a fairly reasonable argument about God leaving it up to people, but hoping people work toward good and having a stake in it.

Throughout the book, Mumma shows that there are similarities between those who search for the problems of living in an absurd world without God as there are problems for those who live in an absurd world with God. Mumma doesn't make arguments to Camus about the afterlife, which is important when reading this, Camus is not looking for escape or relief in anything outside of his current existence - he is, however, looking for more from his existence outside of himself.

Keeping in mind the despair that Camus was suffering through at this time - his personal and professional meltdown after Sartre's attack on The Rebel, his wife's multiple suicide attempts, his recurring crippled bed-laden spells caused from tuberculosis - it is clear that the starkness of life could be reawakened with a new sort of mythological thinking in his life.

I hope that Mumma was being honest in his work, and I also hope that he didn't portray Camus in a biased way in order to advance an agenda for converting atheists to Christianity. I could sense in his book that he did have a sort of desperation toward converting Camus and he demonstrated a lack of understanding basic facts of Camus's life by calling the car wreck that ended his life an "obvious suicide" when he was travelling with others in the vehicle.

In fact, Mumma basically says that which would be expected: he grew up with a tacit understanding that God existed and the Bible was correct because he was born into it. He grew up "with God" around him, and clearly struggled with the idea that one could live without this basic understanding of life. Camus approached existence experiencing a constant struggle with feeling confident in his understanding of what life was about, despite writing one of the clearest essays about the problems of existence in "An Absurd Reasoning" (about the problem of physical and philosophical suicide if life is absurd) and the accompanying parable "The Myth of Sisyphus." Mumma seemed very confident in his beliefs, but also came across (in my point of view) as almost fake and manipulative in his concessions to Camus about his struggles in life when he seemed to so clearly be against confronting his own faith. His eagerness to convert Camus comes across as a sense of validation for his own faith, which ought to have absolutely no connection between the two.

These meetings supposedly took place in the 1950s (Mumma refused to give dates as per Camus's wishes, but still published this book against Camus's wishes). It strikes me that The Fall was published in 1956 because Mumma the converter comes across with a similar cockiness that Jean-Baptiste Clamence did as he leads a stranger through "lessons" from his life as he shares his truths by revealing the underbelly of his misgivings. It makes me wonder if Camus's meetings with Mumma served more as fodder for his writing than the amazing conversation of an existentialist atheist as Mumma portrays it.

Regardless, this book shows that Camus is ever more complicated and multi-faceted than he is often portrayed as, and I can appreciate that about him. The book creates new problems for me to sort through, but I don't think this book in any way diminishes the works that he has done and his unflinching attempts to always live an authentic existence in good faith. Camus's willingness to engage Christianity at that point in his life is a fine testament to his humility, which is one of his greatest attributes.

Theater

It was a good time to see a play tonight, with thoughts about drama swirling in my head because of Albert Camus. I've never acted in a play in my life. The thought never occurred for me to do it in high school, and my lack of experience and involvement in other interests has kept me away from this field.

One of my good friends was one of the leads in this play and portrayed the villain. At a few specific moments he did things and said things that gave me chills up my spine. The ugliness of his character came from a place inside of him that I'm sure he was tapping into. It came across as authentic and truly scary. The woman in the scene with him, had been acting through the entire play as though she were blind exceptionally well. It was believable that she was blind, and it was so strange after the play to walk up to her and shake her hand and notice how different she was when she wasn't acting blind and also how much shorter she looked up close than across on stage.

Going along with other forms of my favorite art- music, painting, literature... these things take you to another place, and that emotional content is so important. Regardless of whether I'm writing poetry or playing music, I like it the most when I'm able to really feel it. Even when feeling it comes from a dark place inside of me (it usually does, in all honesty) that release and connection creates such a good feeling that can last for a long time.

We need these releases, we need them to be connected to our inner-being, and it requires a large degree of vulnerability. I admire my friend for what he did tonight, because he had to take a leap of faith in himself to take on the role and a leap of trust to allow himself to go so far with his character.

It strikes me that Camus must have loved theater for this reason. You are given permission through acting to be yourself in ways that aren't acceptable socially in any other circumstance. Getting involved with drama allowed Camus to delve into himself in the solidarity of others, and no other facet of his life allowed him to do that.

In two weeks I'm going to be seeing five other plays, and I'll have more thoughts on this, for now I'm just going to appreciate my friend's performance and the medium of drama and how powerful it can be.

Solidaire and Solitaire - First reflections

Broaching this topic is rather strange as I sit alone in a coffee shop with an uncertain future as to where I'll be sleeping tonight watching a woman across the room vigorously text on her cell phone while sitting alone with her legs crossed.

I've finally finished another comprehensive biography of Camus's life, but this one focused much more on Camus the man than Camus the philosopher, or Camus the writer. Camus the man interests me as much, if not more, as the other Camuses. There is enough material in this book to sustain me and my thoughts and reflections for many months, but I realize I have a need to re-read many things I've already read with a new sense of context. Wikipedia and a few of the biographies that I have read through do nothing for generating a real portrait of Camus.

Why is it so important for me to get this portrait of Camus?

There are too many coincidences between the content of his philosophy and politics with my own for me to be able to simply accept his words without wanting to know what inspired them. I have a fairly decent understanding of myself (in some respects) and I have a need to understand how he came to these conclusions. I need to know how his life shaped him and the language he used that extends so wonderfully from the page.

I'll be writing much more on Camus, but I want to start with a theme that I've noticed throughout reading this recent book. The continual movement between periods of Solidaire (solidarity) and Solitaire (solitude) in his life. How wonderful that these words are so strikingly similar, because in many ways they have the same function.

I am impressed by the anecdotes about Camus's life and how people in his village all knew him and loved him. His funeral involved everyone in town. He consistently helped people in somewhat surprising ways, yet also so consistent with his personality. He used money from his Nobel Prize to help wives and children of men who were killed in the Hungarian Revolution. The talk of the "human cost of war" was often overlooked when talking about WWI and WWII in contrast to the great cause of these wars. After WWI, the mass destruction created a vacuum of meaning that lead to absurdist movements like DADAism, but also left a more tangible mark on Camus personally due to his father dying in the war. WWII is often talked about as the great cause to defeat the evil NAZI expansionism, Holocaust, and brutal occupation. Camus continued to talk about the simple costs of life on a much more individual level. The respect for individuals, and the feeling of solidarity he has with those in the human experience, particularly those who suffer is exceptional. Likely, so much of this has to do with growing up without a father, poor, with a mostly mute mother, and suffering most of his life from very painful, crippling episodes of tuberculosis. Camus understands suffering, and his "Mediterranean sensibilities" along with his university work on the Greeks and interest in theatre are such obvious places for Camus to obsess that we should almost expect it.

The gravity of the seriousness of Camus's passions weighed on him, no more than the Algerian independence movement near the end of his life. He attempted unsuccessfully to create a peace between the French Algerians and the Algerians, and suffered greatly as his true home, Algeria, tumbled into a violent mess and ceased to be the true home of his youth.

Camus's retreat toward the solitaire was very necessary for him to face these great problems, but it wasn't easy. He often complained of not accomplishing anything, and had terrible bouts of writer's block that lasted for years at a time. This can help give me some perspective, but I'm beginning to really feel the weight of having truly not done anything as each year passes.

The push and pull of needing to feel a sense of solidaire in his life and retreating to a solitaire state are reflective of his idealism and moralism and the lack of finding these ideals/morals in the world and in himself. This tension is central in all of his books, and the importance of this cannot be understated.

Women played an important role in this, yet a complicated role... I will discuss this further at another time.

Music to Nightfall

Mozart's music eases pain
(scientists tell me)
so I don't listen to it.

I could describe melancholy
as an awareness of memories
distended and languidly
enmeshed with the sensual
experiences of reality.

Loneliness can be a comfort
like an old immobile uncle
seen once a year
at family reunions:

safe and familiar
with few surprises.

The moment is its own refuge.

Music is its revenge.

Music can intensify pain
so tonight I'll avoid Mozart
because I want nothing
to soothe my senses.

I will remember nothing
and bite the notes
through my teeth.

I will render sounds
into leaves

dry and heftless
crumbled particles
exploding into the air.


That burning sensation
caught in the nostrils
tastes of melodies torn
asunder as the molecules
diffuse through me.

The acrid harmonies
force my eyes open
and my back to straighten.

And the broken beat
distills the ground
surrounding my planted feet
and extends new light
from the sun peaking
out of shadowed clouds
hovering with impunity
just over the horizon.

A quick breath
and I look around me:

I see people I know
with familiar hands
held at their sides.

I hear other sounds
and feel disposed to listen
as new melodies
surround me.

I forget everything I asked for
and let all of the music
forge the growing night
sprinkled with hazy stars
with warm old casacading hues.

A Breath: This Night

the serpent's head is big as a wake
held for ancient hymnal heroes

sonnets are bonnets for guns
sons and lovers and brothers
oft left for other orders

I met you at a concert
and the music lost me
before you

where words disappear
I am

and soldiering snakes
sneak breaths between songs

this night: only

hawks defer to owls

sparrows disperse
as bats cut a knife's edge
from the sky

heat slithers away
leaving only bodies
pressed together

violence of sound retreats
into a stable breath: only

stars shimmer heavily

when humidity rises

only: this night
breathes together
a surrendering shudder
communion communal
beat-eating tongues
swallow milky stars
swirling moist air
between us

only: a breath
shared in rhythm

a heavy slogging beat
primal and ancient
mythological embodiment
movement enchantment

so we breathe together
only now: this night

expressions of faith in river currents
sweeping away the summer

conveyance of thought in gest
unsettled in the moving scape

scraps of tissue paper fragment
dissolving circulatory memory

age is a question

before I bought my dog
I thought of my habits
and assessed myself

the sea counts backwards from infinity
by lunar cycles

she answers in silence

I lit a fire
and watched the moon
ascend

blinding my fire
I collapsed into the night

my dog found me
and cocked his head

I said nothing
and came inside

he settled quickly to my feet
falling asleep with ease

outside the moon
dominates the sea
and everything glows
in projection

Quick key thoughts before bed

1) Camus was haunted his entire adult life by his failed first marriage that ended when his wife got heavily involved with drugs. Throughout the rest of his life this affected him deeply, and he continued to send her things anonymously to try to help her with her drug addiction.

2) Francine, his second wife, suffered from major depression and tried killing herself twice by jumping. The second time she broke her pelvis badly. Camus blamed himself for this due to his adultery and particularly of importance, falling in love with his lover, Marie, who was an actress in his plays. She was no longer able to be in his plays after this incident, but strangely enough, after his fatal car accident Francine and Marie were able to talk and become quite close friends with each other.

3) Camus's mother was mostly silent, and according to him had a 400 word vocabularly. When he told her that he turned down a meeting with the French president she agreed with his decision because "those people aren't for us." She was the most important woman in his life, and he could barely communicate with her.

The Fall

After reading through some biographies about Albert Camus, my suspicions about The Fall have been confirmed. The book is a confessional. But so are all of his books in one way or another.

My favorite author has injected aspects of what is truest to his heart and also the most painful and tragic aspects of his life and failings into his work, yet he has managed to also stay guarded in some way.

I can relate to all of this, but I wonder if the dimness of my life and my flailings and failings compared to his wild swings has also stifled my creativity. It is possible for me to jump into the world of Don Juanism, though I've always been faithful to all of my girlfriends that I've had. I too feel more rejuvenated in the company of women, but the brotherhood of men is also important to me.

Loyalty is a word often ignored, but my loyal friendships mean more to me than everything else. I am now a year single, and have not had a single moment of doubt, regret, or apprehension about moving on. Guilt was a driving theme of The Fall, and I understand now this is primarily because Camus felt himself a guilty man. As in The Stranger, Camus identified in many ways with Mersault and other characters in the book. But it is more complicated than that, as it always is.

We don't need a god to deal with guilt, humans suffice on their own. This idea is taken from Camus as well, and I'm stricken by how many people I see wallow in their guilt. So many people waiting for judgement, for the verdict, for the reckoning. The feeling of guilt is an over-riding agony compared to the relief of reaching a verdict. And in crimes of the heart, crimes of not being good enough, crimes of aloofness, crimes of feeling unapologetic when one thinks he should, crimes of caring for the wrong things, crimes of not feeling guilty when you know you should... that last one is particularly odd, guilt about not feeling guilt.

But the truth is, despite everything you may think of me - I am a very moral individual. Where I exceed Camus is that I don't falter on my core beliefs, but that may not be good for the artist in me. I don't have that tension swirling in me about my moral turpitude. Instead, I fall in the other direction... I feel often as if I've not done enough, failing on the side of inaction. I could do more, but finding my voice and my path hasn't come as easily to me as it did to Camus. However, it is clear now that he will be my marker of comparison from here on out, regardless of the fairness to myself or to him. Contemporaries be damned... this world is somewhat lost to me, I don't see how to fit into it. Camus ended his life marginalized on all things that he cared about by the mainstream of society, and now in his death he is being rejuvenated. I'm not really interested in what happens after my death, and I doubt that I'll have a legacy like his, but I feel the weight of time moving constantly.

My work now does not suffer from a lack of commitment, but a lack of focus. I need to zero in on the essentials, on my themes and develop them. I need to develop myself and I need to feel more discomfort and exhilaration. Both are available in droves. Both are waiting.