"Why do you even get out of bed in the morning?"
This was the question asked of me by a man during a conversation about personal beliefs a number of years ago. The gentleman I was talking with at the time was a devout, fundamentalist Christian who was also an activist in the Republican Party. He also held dear to his heart the belief that "liberalism was a mental defect and those who perpetuated such a philosophy were sick." I am not making this up--I have met such a person!
During the course of our conversation this man realized that not only was I a confirmed liberal (and a proud one at that) but that I did not hold a belief in God like the Christians, Jews, Muslims or Buddhist. He seemed to be so shocked about my comfort level of disbelief in a supreme being that he raised his voice in an almost aggressive manner and said: "If I didn't believe in God there would be nothing to live for. I might as well go out and rob a liquor store and shoot the clerk just for the fun of it."
This statement speaks more about that individual's personal pathology than about living a good and honest life just for the sake of doing so. If I had to live the good life because some big guy with a big stick up in heaven told me to, that wouldn't be much of a life worth living. I would probably commit suicide if that were the case. I have always and will continue to live the good life because it is the moral and ethical thing to do, and the advancement of the positive aspects of world civilization depends upon it. This is what I would refer to as my higher calling.
Now back to the question of "Why do you even get out of bed in the morning?" There are many reasons extraordinary and mundane that keep me going day after day, even when it seems like the entire world is coming apart at the seams. The one extraordinary reason that gets me out of bed each and every morning is the hope of putting into practice during my day one of the higher humanist ethical principles like respecting others, doing no harm, self improvement, helping those in need, etc. It is the same way of looking at life as did the character played by Jimmy Stewart in the classic film "Its A Wonderful LIfe." Every word and action has som rippling effect on your personal world as well as the world at large for good or bad. So if you have a chance to make the world just a little better--why not?
There are many mundane reasons also that get me out of bed each morning; it's a new day--anything can happen--that's very exciting; discovery of a new book to be read; having a new culinary experience; walking through my neighborhood and discovering new things and meeting new people; sitting on the porch after a thunder shower and smelling the damp sweetness around me; watching how happy my dog Clifford gets while waiting for his breakfast; anticipating the stories my wife will bring home from her work that day; and the discovery of colorful birds, insects and butterflies in my garden that I haven't seen before.
These are the things that get me out of bed every morning and no matter how ugly, nasty or brutish the world becomes, these will always be important enough to me to keep on going, to live life to its fullest and maybe, along the way, discover an extraordinary moment in time.
The other day I was hanging out at my favorite coffee shop, the Alberta Street Coffee House on Northeast Alberta street in Portland, Oregon. This particular establishment has a heavy atmosphere of liberality and attracts a wide range of eclectic folks, from young computer geeks with their laptops, to artists and writers, to political activists, to the retired, and to the most common, ordinary person like myself. It is a very comfortable and small coffee shop with throw rugs, coffee tables, couches and easy chairs. The place is littered with books, magazines and local newspapers. Local art for sale usually adorns the walls. It is a homey place. A place where it is easy to strike up a conversation with a total stranger about anything.
A twenty-somthing man was sitting at the table next to me and reading a section of the Oregonian newspaper about the demise of Russian Nobel Laureate, Alexander Solzhenitsyn. I noticed after a few minutes he started shaking his head slightly and murmured, "Why haven't I ever heard of this guy?" Because I have read nearly everything written by Solzhenitsyn that has been translated into English, I struck up a conversation with the young man with the purpose of offering him a few anecdotes about the author.
I told this man that Solzhenitsyn was considered one of the great moral voices among writers of the twentieth century. And because of the state repression, torture and atrocities he experienced first hand it gave him a unique perspective on the world and the human condition. Thusly, his writings will no doubt become timeless. Solzhenitsyn was a giant of a man in many ways that not only survived but outlived the very state apparatus he fought against all of his life.
Since he seemed eager and a willing listener, I further told this young man in order to really understand and appreciate why Solzhenitsyn was so bigger than life, it would be beneficial for him to read the major works of Shakespeare, Tolstoy and Dostoevsky since Solzhenitsyn was heavily influenced by all three authors. This man had only heard of Shakespeare and Tolstoy but had never read a single word from them. His experience of these two authors was strictly from television specials. This startled me that he was completely unaware of Dostoevsky, and never had the opportunity to read a Shakespeare play or a story or novel by Tolstoy. I asked him how that could be.
The man admitted that during his high school years in Portland Public Schools he never read Shakespeare, Tolstoy or Dostoevsky, nor was required to do so for graduation. He further admitted that he read as little as possible and only when he was forced to out of necessity. He offered another striking admission that while pursuing his Bachelor of Social Work degree at Portland State University he only read what was required in order to get his degree. He also said that as soon as he graduated last month he swore that he would never read another book again unless it was required by his job. My stomach did a flip-flop when I heard this man speak so passionately of his lack of desire to read books of any substance.
I told him that he seemed interested in the newspaper article so what held him back from tackling one of Solzhenitsyn's novels. The man told me rather bluntly that he found it easy to read twenty or thirty paragraphs in a newspaper, magazine or on the Internet, but anything longer was too time consuming and too much of a commitment. I shook my head that I understood but deep inside I was raging against this young man's unwillingness to taste the sweet wonders of a great work of literature, and view the world through the eyes of its author and possibly uncover a great truth in the process.
As the man finished reading the newspaper article I thought about how different I was at his age. I had been blessed with a home environment at an early age that fueled my passion for reading. The older I got the more interest I gained in books, especially really great books, really meaningful and significant books. During my twenties I couldn't seem to find enough time to read the long list of books I created for myself. This was by choice and no one forced me into this passionate past-time of reading. When money was low I deliberately missed a few meals just so I had the money to buy certain books. The reading material I was craving at the time couldn't be found at the public library.
The young man finally finished his drink and the newspaper article, got up and left. On the way out he thanked me for the conversation. I sat there for quite awhile feeling very sad for this young man; feeling sad for all the rich delights and wells of wisdom he will never know by being a non-reader. I'm not sure if the public school system failed him, or he just had a basic character flaw against reading in general. I would safely bet that he is the exception and not representational of his generation. It still makes me sad that anybody can go through life and not have a desire to read the great masterworks of world literature.
A teacher in the seventh grade who I greatly admired told our class one day: "Great readers make great writers, and great writers make great leaders." This just poured more fuel on the fire of my passion for reading. I will never forget that teacher or his statement of truth. I graduated from high school in the era when it was a requirement to read and have a passable understanding of Homer, Virgil, Sophocles, Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Faulkner before one got a diploma. I found that two years after my graduation the state of California dropped that requirement as well as the study of a foreign language.
This young man is culturally and intellectually crippling himself to the point where he will be unable to focus his mind on sustained high level reading and critical thinking. The experience of attaining any meaningful and significant leadership role in his life may turn out to be an empty sham, causing himself and others around him distress and hurt. Unless he goes through a miraculous turnabout I tremble when thinking that one day this young man could attain a position of grave responsibility in our country.
REST IN PEACE MY WONDERFUL COMPANION
Murphy Girl
Died Tuesday, June 17, 2008
12:35 a.m.
14 years, 10 months old.
Murphy taught me many things over the years, especially like how to enjoy the simple pleasures in life and take it one day at a time. She also taught me how to endure frailty, old age and how to accept the inevitable.
Murphy was very active until one year ago when the frailty of old age set in. She could no longer endure the beach vacations and the long hikes at Indian Beach, Tolavana, etc. She was content to just stay home, go for short rides in the car and get hugs and treats.
The house seems very empty now without her. When I go into the bedroom I almost expect to see her big wonderful brown eyes, aviator ears and that big Irish grin.
She went peacefully into that good night! All that is left are memories and tears.
There was one time in my life that I seriously considered running for elective office. It was 1976 and I was living in Napa, California. I decided to run for a spot on the local water district board. Why I chose that particular position to launch a possible political career I don't know, maybe it seemed less intimidating than a city council seat or the office of the Mayor.
At the time it really didn't seem to bother me that I was only 21 years old, completely unknown in my home town, had no life experience to speak of, no public service experience, completely broke and unemployed, and wasn't even registered to vote. Despite these small negatives I spent two months mapping out strategy and creating lists of people and businesses that I could depend on as donors. I went to city hall, filled out the proper paperwork, paid the fee, and even borrowed $500 from a friend to sit on my butt for two months thinking up a game plan.
To make a long story short my campaign for public office never even made it out the front door of my apartment. Four candidates, including myself, were listed on the ballot for that particular water district. One month after the election I went to city hall and found out that I had received a wopping nine votes. The winner and two runner ups received thousands of votes more than I could ever hope for. Of the nine votes cast in my favor, six of them I already knew but the other three were mysterious unknowns. It made me feel rather proud that I had a constituency of nine people in Napa and I never even had to take a bribe, kiss a baby, shake a hand, or tell a lie to win their support. What politician today can claim such a feat?
Looking at the current 2008 Democratic Presidential primary, it never ceases to amaze me just how much of a big ego, psychological cunning, personal deviousness, and physical stamina one needs to run for elective office, especially for the Office of the Presidency of the United States. I came across a cute but sad cartoon on the Internet during the 2004 Democratic primary that showed all the candidates marching single file into a meat grinder and coming out the other end completely unrecognizable for better or for worse. This is probably why most of those who do run for the Unted States Presidency say that it is a "life changing experience." And it is probably why that thousands of the most gifted and qualified never run for office.
I must say that I have nothing but respect (and a little bit of sadness) for anybody who runs for the Presidency of the United States of America. I could never do it in my wildest dreams, even if Microsoft mogel Bill Gates offered me a check for one billion dollars.
The other day I received an email from an ardent admirer of my online column. She happens to live in Providence, Rhode Island, and knows me from a time during the mid-1990's when we both posted comments on a world wide web discussion group. She was quite frustrated with me saying: "I love your writing but there's not enough of it-please write more." I was not too pleased with her email and told her so, while trying not to dampen her enthusiasm for my new column. (I have so very few ardent admirers that I can't afford to lose any.) I hope I was successful with her. Only time will tell.
This email brought up an important issue with me about my writing, or I should say my lack of writing. I have too many other things in my life to feel guilty about and I don't need my lack of productive writing to be one of them, especially when ardent fans remind me of this. It may sound silly to my readers, considering the fact that I am not famous or even well known, but comments like the one she made, puts a lot of pressure on me and I end up over thinking the issue and actually produce less.
When I responded to this woman I offered her six reasons (she later said the reasons sounded more like rationalizations...) why my writing output was probably so sparse. I told her that the great bulk of writers in the Internet blogosphere are there to get attention, to show off or to impress others, to compensate for weaknesses or frustrations, to try to secure oneupmanship over another person, to try to impose their will or ideas over others, and lastly, as an outlet for frustration or tension or hostility. These six reasons, by no means discrete or inclusive, are personal reasons.
Writing of this type pervades the Internet like so much emotional vomit. It tends to be intellectually impotent, lacking maturity, and filled with unnecessary fluff. It is easy to spot this kind of writing because it usually rambles, goes off on all sorts of tangents, is filled with much irrelevancy, and often with much misplaced emotion. There is often considerable hyperbole, overreaction, and confusion in thinking something through. The personality of this type of writer, not the outcome, is what appears to be at stake. There is rarely a harmonious conclusion or resolution to such writing; usually it just stops. This type of writing becomes a form of play, sometimes very aggressive play. A person writing from any of these six motivations may not be seeking a higher road to truth about themselves or the world, or writing for writing's sake, or to achieve perfection of an art form.
My writing is an exercise to discover hidden truths about myself, others and the world at large. A good example of this was my short story, "Konstantin's Birthday," posted earlier on this column. The motivation behind this story was to force myself to become better acquainted with the suffering that happened during Nazi Germany's airborne assault on the island of Crete during World War Two. And it is primarily for this reason only that I am incapable of any sort of hack writing that is so prevalent on the world wide web today. The few words that I do write I want to count for something substantial and offer others something to chew on intellectually and cogitate upon during their quiet hours.
I would like to end this essay by stating that good and endearing writing always has purpose. At the core of my personal essays or stories is the supposition that there is a certain unity to human experience. As the great essayist, Michel de Montaigne said: "Every man has within himself the entire human condition." I would add that how a writer manifests that human condition, or simply overlooks it in favor of the trivial and mundane, shows whether they are a moron or someone struggling to find truth within themselves, others or the world.
"Enlightenment is the emancipation of man from a state of self-imposed tutelage. This state is due to his incapacity to use his own intelligence without external guidance. Such a state of tutelage I call 'self-imposed' (or 'culpable') if it is due not to lack of intelligence but to lack of courage or determinism to use one's own intelligence without the help of a leader. Saper aude! dare to use your own intelligence! That is the battlecry of the Enlightenment."
Immanual Kant
Essay: What Is Enlightenment
It was August 1994.
A very great and everlasting change came upon me suddenly but not without some warning. I was a seeker without a home, walking the side streets of the universe, begging a cup of nectar from the gods. All I had left in the world was the memories of my previous homes, homes that I was unable to return to.
Then one fine afternoon I sat down, staring at a blank wall, with the intention of never arising until I found home again. Seven hours later I stood up and found myself in my new home. The same one I had been born into. It was startling! I had come full circle.
Images of all the religious figures I had studied and honored over my life swirled in my brain like fast moving pictures, going on, and on, and on.....then subsiding into the far reaches of memory. A calmness moved over my entire being. I felt light, as if I could fly or jump over trees with a single push. Then peace and knowing washed over me like a breaker wave at the beach. I suddenly knew! Then I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.....until my stomach ached and my eyes watered. I finally knew what I had been searching for all my life and it was inside of me all the time.
I walked outside into the warm August evening and looked up into the dark sky and trembled slightly. Everything was now crystal clear. I had no where to go, no one to see or no one to follow.....but myself. With that awareness I looked at the task before me and trembled again. I would be walking alone once again on the back streets of the universe with nothing but a knapsack full of memories and a cup to fill back-up with new experiences.
(This is a true story)
One day in the Spring of 1979, while sitting with my friend Steffan in a San Francisco Chinese cafe having green tea and egg rolls, he asked me quite bluntly: "Who is the real Ben Douglass?"
Steffan often waxed philosophical about the world and its primary players, especially when he had a bit too much to drink. This was the first time, though, his philosophical searchlight directed itself at me personally. I was intrigued by the question and after a deliberate and measured pause, I decided to play the game.
I told him that the state of my soul at the time was rather complicated and couldn't be adequately explained to another without reading first three novels that had had a moving anf profound influence on my life. These novels were: Oblomov by Ivan Goncharov; Knulp by Hermann Hesse; and The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft by George Gissing.
Goncharov's Oblomov tells the story of a wastrel member of the Russian gentry class who spends his whole life dreaming and wanting to be happy like other people but dies a very lonely man, passed over by friends, his first love and life in general. Hesse's Knulp was the author's spiritual autobiography so to speak. It tells of a wandering tramp who never does settle down to the domestic life like his former classmates and friends, but always in search of freedom on the road. In the end he's speaking with God and re-evaluating his life and finds that he couldn't have lived any other way even if he had wanted to. While he lay dying in a snow drift, babbling to God about his life, he finds true freedom. Gissing's The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft is simply about failed literary ambition.
I told Steffan if he would just take the time to read and try and understand each of these novels, he would fully appreciate the hopes, dreams, failures, and the philosophical condition of my soul. Later that evening I let him borrow copies of these three novels.
Several weeks later we found ourselves at the same Chinese cafe having lunch. Steffan had brought the books along with him. I was eager to know his opinion on my reading material and he didn't disappoint me. He had only gotten half-way through Goncharov's Oblomov before tossing it aside. He claimed he came very close to using the novel as toilet paper.
While going on and on about the novel in particular and Russian literature in general, he used phrases like "moral bankruptcy," "spiritual illness" and "tragic oneupmanship." I remember him leaning across the table and wagging his finger in my face and saying quite loudly so everyone in the cafe could hear, "Keep on reading this crap and you'll end up just like them." He then gave me a big wink.
I immediately felt quite insulted and reminded him rather tersely that when he asks to peek into a man's soul he should be prepared for anything-and if not-don't be asking in the first place. After a dramatic pause on his part and a thousand yard stare, he grabbed the Russian novel, tore out several pages, stuffed them in his back pocket and smiled saying: "I need something to wipe my ass tonight."
The following is the record of a dream, or more accurately, a memory.
It could be a fragment from another life, another time, or pure fantasy contrived by a mind without enough practical work to keep it busy. It has been a persistent memory throughout the years, popping into my conscious life like fast moving storm clouds on a spring day in the Pacific Northwest. From childhood through my adult years it has always come into my life without request, when I least expect it.
The memory came back today. It seems to come and go like the wind (excuse the worn out phrase). Usually when it comes it is a slow, hot and lazy day when I feel at peace with myself and no pressing problems to distract me, or it comes on a day when I'm sick or under heavy and profound stress. A day just like today. It was the same as before, but seems to linger a bit longer this time, casting a spell of permanence and realness, when I fully realize that there is none to be found.
The most significant memory of this memory, if that's the proper way of expressing it, is the absolute clarity of the otherworldly silence. A deep and pregnant silence. The best way of describing this silence is like sitting in a big movie theater watching a film that has no sound. The visuals are strong and resonating but the lack of sound makes for a sureal experience.
Each time this memory quietly invades my life I'm left with a deep and powerful longing for childhood; a time of beauty, discovery, goodness, satisfaction, and innocence.
Looking around the periphery of this memory are mighty old growth eucalyptus trees, almost touching the sky, standing as if they stood for a thousand years and will go on standing another thousand years. The ground is hard and dry. Fallen leaves are heavy-laden, giving me a deep and rich carpet to walk upon. As I walk, the gentle crushing of leaves bursts into pungent aroma in the warm summer air.
In the middle of this memory stands an extremely large house, and its stark whiteness clashes greatly with the brown and green surroundings. It is a rich and solid house full of history. There are four massive pillars in front that is reminisent of the old antebellum mansions in the deep south of the United States. As I concentrate and focus on this scene the smell of many mounds of burning sandelwood becomes apparent but never getting in the way of the eucalyptus odor constantly but lightly swirling about.
Actually, now that I think of it, it is merely the memory of this long past olfactory experience that still persists. I get the impression of something straight out of India; the gods, the diversity, the passivity, the slowness, the heaviness. No people populate this memory but their individual and collective memory lingers as if they were still somewhere in the background or had just recently left.
Everytime I smell eucalyptus or see an orchard of oldgrowth eucalyptus trees this memory gently slides back into my conscious life. After about an hour the memory fades. Each time this happens I long to be in that memory forever and entirely forget this world.
The literary form called the character novel has had an immense impact on my intellectual as well as everyday life, ever since I first discovered at the tender age of 15, Willard Motley's prize winning novel, Knock On Any Door. This was the story of Nick Romano growing up in the Chicago slums. He was an alter boy at 12 and dead in the electric chair at 21.
The story of Nick Romano exposed me to a part of the life struggle that was unknown to me at that time. This composite story of a troubled street youth fired up my imagination and left me wanting to read more of the same. I was fortunate enough to have had a sympathetic English teacher at the time who recognized my passion for stories about people, and further exposed me to what he referred to as "protest literature." He gave me a short list to work from and at the top of that list was the novel, Down These Mean Streets by Pere Thomas. Also on the list was the play, Westside Story. From there I jumped into nonfiction literary treats such as Blood In My Eye by George Jackson.
This literature of troubled youth had such a poignant impact on me that I ended up with the unintentional result of working with these same kind of troubled kids later in life. From 1984 until 1988 I worked as an outreach worker and emergency services coordinator for Outside In's street youth program. At the time Outside In was one of Portland, Oregon's premier socio-medical aid stations which provided free counseling, referrals, emergency services, and a medical clinic for the down and out. It was here at Outside In that I met many Nick Romano's with their own unique and passionate stories. One lad went on to spend five years in prison for first degree arson, another committed suicide, while yet another died so very young of A.I.D.S. The lives and stories of these street kids eventually became too overwhelming and I had to leave that part of my life behind for other things.
My fascination with troubled souls is still alive and well today. I have collected around 25 character novels which I consider keepers, to be read and re-read many times over. The characters in these novels are most often dubbed anti-hero's by the mainstream literary establishment, and often referred to in negative terms as: lonely oddballs, self-absorbed individualists, mental cases, contrarians, non-conformists, deviants, as well as many other names too numerous to list here. The better label for these colorful characters would be heretic. Whether these character's heretical lifestyle and thinking patterns are merely self-made protective barriers against normal society, or a way of accessing the ultimate truth about existence, they have one thing in common: they were born heretics, held hostage by their genetics, social culture, and family upbringing and had no choice but to be who they were.
The best of these character novels that truly represents the heretic in my humble opinion is Against Nature by J. K. Huysmans. The copy I own is a translation (and one of the best methinks) by Robert Baldick. The book hit the literary scene of 1884 like a cosmic big bang. Oscar Wilde found this the "strangest book that he had ever read" and it became a key text for his own writings. Zola called the book "a terrible blow to Naturalism." The general public condemned it as a work of depravity. In colorful and flowery prose the book tells about the strange, exotic and perverse pleasures and practices of one Duc Jean Floressas des Esseintes, a composite character of several "gorgeous dandies of the time."
Some have accused Huysmans of writing about himself in the thinnest of disguises. As Robert Baldick writes in his introduction: "Des Esseintes is more than his creator's alter ego and the quintessential Decadent. He is also, and above all else, the modern man par excellence, tortured by that vague longing for an elusive ideal which we used to call the mal du siecle; torn between desire and satiety, hope and disillusionment; painfully conscious that his pleasures are finite, his needs infinite."
As the charcter Des Esseintes was the epitome of the heretic during his time of the 1880's, so Nick Romano was the epitome of the heretic during his time of the 1950's. Both of these characters in their own uniquely tragic way captured Baldick's "the modern man par excellence." Both Romano and Des Esseintes were very painfully aware that their pleasures were indeed finite and their needs infinite. And I have come to the conclusion that the street youth I worked with and cared so deeply about in the 1980's suffered the same fate. Heretics young or old, from all ages of history and well into the future, will always be who they are and no matter how much we have sympathy for them, or even try to help protect them from themselves, they will continue to follow the path that fate has bestowed upon them.
