The Other Monster

July 15, 2017

Monte Alban 2

 

“This is the hour when moonstruck poets know
What fungi sprout in Yuggoth…”
FUNGI FROM YUGGOTH, H.P. Lovecraft

I recall “Weird Tales” as a vestigial memory in the magazine rack of my childhood. I didn’t know anyone who read it, but I didn’t know anyone who read” Scientific American” either. There’s something embarrassingly peeper and voyeuristic about it, like smut promising men’s adventure mags, it was a publication that adults warned children to stay away from…or at least keep in the basement by the paint and turpentine…

Oh no wait, I’m having either a disgusting Proustian moment, or planting a memory. My Uncle’s Uncle may have been a perv…now I only have 3,999 more pages of recherché…

Or maybe he just found them and kept them like he saved other kinds of paper. Maybe that’s either part of his concealed perviness. Or it’s symptomatic of a mental McGuffin meant to throw me off the plotline that he had a second family in a village in Greece, a wife disfigured in WWII who he had tried to poison but failed, however she has turned mute either as a consequence of the poison, or to disguise her own plan for revenge, but having only a partial right hand she remains even more dependent on him than most Greek peasant wives. Nonetheless one Tuesday morning he leaves her promising to find their fortune in America and send for her. He sends her money orders from the illicit quarters and nickels he makes collecting “bug” slips over on Squirrel Hill. She can’t write. He sends money but more and more sporadically, not knowing if she’s alive or dead. The cover of that issue of Weird Tales” is illustrated with a man with an open shirt, sweating heavily, looking anxiously over his shoulder at a shadowed twisting road…yet stereotypes can translate with unexpected nuances. The picture may have served as something like an icon of his guilt, or a protective image of the patron saint of constant flight.

Otherwise he seems annoyed and busy with keeping books. When he does that he puts on reading glasses that disturbingly make him appear as if he is both reptilian and dozing, at the same time his lips move silently mouthing his calculations and column headings in Greek. He is rude, nearly abusive, to his ‘second’ wife who is from a second-generation Greek immigrant family rooted on a desolate island. He berates her in English, she mutters back Greek folk sayings that could be curses or protective jests, then lights another filtered cigarette. She is pious, laughs nervously, bakes incessantly, and blesses even the smallest of events, laying down a low trump card, or flicking her cigarette and missing the ash tray. Perhaps she was the one who found the magazine. Her frugality is relentless. She saves Christmas used Christmas paper under her bed.

In my memories I don’t recall seeing my Uncle’s uncle paint, or do a single domestic chore…perhaps the paint, turpentine and “Weird Tales” belonged to a different person altogether. A relative of a relative who barely spoke English and needed work, or needed to barter off a debt. After he had painted the interior, he arranged the leftover supplies neatly stacked on a basement shelf with the magazine he had been trying to read to practice English, but found he had no form in any of his languages to correctly translate the events that the cover and pages promised to unfold, so he left it behind, not wanting to throw away a book, even though it had no meaning. Perhaps during the war, he had witnessed book burnings, been forced to burn his own books, or been coerced to burn the books of others…somehow found himself stimulated by it. He may have carried some kind of sensibility in his fingertips as he riffles the pages of a book the way others might feel pleasure caressing fur. Leaving the magazine perfectly arranged on that shelf gave him an incomprehensible, detached satisfaction, a quiet sense of order. Perhaps he tore up a different copy to wrap his paint brushes when he had finished cleaning them. Folding the pages of the fantasy sub-Hells into envelopes to keep the bristles straight with the kind of ingenuity that comes from a generational tradition of endemic poverty that demands painstaking thrift, and intimate focus on re-utilizing and preserving. He left it then as a bonus, a kindness, that indicated gratitude and optimism.

Or the basement isn’t a basement in that house on Ravenwood, but a waiting tentacle of some Lovecraft creature beneath, the untranslatable fungus that paints itself with fear, but only as a lure…an attraction to the unconscious mind of someone who has picked up that edition of “Weird Tales”. It is another eternal fungus that lives by eating memories. For decades it may rest dormant, encased in a seeming insignificant forgotten detail, and then once remembered it’s released and begins its awful blooming. I can barely recollect my Uncle’s uncle now. He has been dead for more than two generations. I didn’t like him very well. Whether he had a disfigured second wife or no, he was a short-tempered, unpleasant man with poor digestion, who always appeared to want to be somewhere else than where we were. Although I try to keep any memory with the kind of compulsive hoarding the “Weird Tales” has come to represent. If by long meditative work I could organize my memories into a Memory Palace, he would be in an imagined basement represented by a peripheral and disregarded fantasy magazine that, strangely, if it could be removed from its immutable location, I would read it, but with the amplified depth and expectations I might bring to translating a remnant form of a different civilization, perhaps a fragment of a myth not included in “The Metamorphosis”…at least as a text with a meaning beyond its circumstance. On the cover is a man looking over his shoulder at a shadowy twisting road. Like so much, it is incomprehensible, but will not stop.

Reader don’t leave me here. Do you feel what this horror pulp has generated? Or is this merely near the 15th day of the Seventh month…and I’m being psychically enlisted to bring magazines to my dead relatives whose spirits Chinese bankers have come to possess through collapsed junk bond loans wherein a side codicil encumbered the souls of immigrant dead as collateral. Or I put my own family in Diyu when I set a scribbled drawing of a nu gui on fire and tacked it to a classroom wall as an illustration. Either way I must pay rent in Diyu. I know nothing about the hungry realms after death, except we will sweat through our shirts to try to escape, and some of us would rather remain here as even as a fugitive, intermittently growing fungus buried in an obscure publication than enter an existence predicted only by the longing we feel for things that aren’t there.

Perhaps this extrapolation can be dismissed as merely a rare, but possible, side effect from my last two weeks of writing and rewriting a sonnet about Georgia O’Keeffe’s black door paintings, and then looking up from my computer to discover “The Brain That Wouldn’t Die”, in all its B & W smuttiness, had replaced my expected distracted viewing of Wimbledon. O ironic cosmos that places stars into the boot soles of Whitman, and larvae in the commas of Lovecraft, why have you denied me the pleasure of watching images of deer-like women athletes chasing across green lawns and left me hypnotized by the image of woman’s sadistic, disembodied head ordering murders and capriciously refusing to be grafted onto the body of a gullible strip tease artiste’? Why must there always be a monstrous hand behind the locked door? Why should a sleazy tenor sax solo be the prelude to another failed giant leap in scientific titillation? At least in the film’s Armageddon the other monster escapes, Deus ex Machina, in time to rescue the peculiarly gullible stripper, then surrounded by gray fire, the talking head laughs like my Uncle’s uncle’s wife.

Now I really must end, “Victor Frankenstein” is on in Spanish and I’ll have to concentrate to translate dialog from a burning circus in Victorian London. Except this, two weeks ago a woman sent me an e-mail asking me to critique a poem wherein the Frankenstein monster tritely would ask its maker “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” I suggested she change the line to “Eloi Eloi lama sabachthani?” for period resonance, reflecting how the Brits used to love dead Greeks at the end of the Romantics. Tuesday night, I ran into her at a poetry reading. She whispers,“Did you know, it’s what Jesus said…on the cross, I think.” O fungus come now. It’s been that kind of summer, lots of turning roads, dark doors, bad translations, and resurrected monsters all whirling in the rearview mirror. We all used to love terrible things; we try to convince ourselves to believe we still don’t.

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Demon Ship

November 26, 2016

demon-2

Demon Ship

Last Sunday I’d been rereading D H Lawrence’s “Ship of Death” with the slow careful reading I lavish on revising. Revision is a peculiar human act, I don’t think any other creature revises its past to effect its present. I awoke that Sunday hearing Lawrence reciting from an unbidden memory I carried from a recording I used to listened to in 1975. Reading Lawrence on line during travel in the mountains of New Mexico near where his ashes are buried briefly felt apropos enough to disguise my unconscious attraction to the voice asking “Have you built your ship of death…?”. It’s been a year of changes.

It began in January with a family death. For most of my life I’ve been estranged from my relatives, so when we share passages the distance is more apparent and unforgivable, the summer family reunion was only a little less awkward than the wake. Then came an unusually despairing spate of manuscript rejections. The top of the guitar I played for thirty years split. I began the frenetic task of opening another new second chance campus in a defaulted church community center. Happily and tearfully, I walked my daughter over a rough bridge to the meadow where she was married. I turned sixty-five. Donald Trump was elected. A water leak changed my library into the room that used to contain my library. Erasure/revision has directed me to re-think what I believed I knew in different, sober directions.

 Piecemeal the body dies, and the timid soul // has her footing washed away, as the dark flood rises. “The Ship of Death”, D.H. Lawrence 1929 [41-42]

Some days I’m lucky enough to stay in a house on a mesa road above an abandoned cloister. It possesses enough quiet I can pretend to hear the hiss of the earth rotating. I spend the days in a few chores, walks in the cold, arranging visits, and preparing meals. Without the distraction of paid work, the days feel pleasant, refreshing, but fraudulent. Learning to re-think emptiness borders on the barely possible. I failed at my first retirement, the burden of filling the hours with myself was too exhausting. That effort also taught me to recognize that the dream I carried of being a writer was probably only going to make me an interesting correspondent, a private poet, and romantic author of blogs a few people read. Still, adjusting to leaving dreams behind seems nearly impossible too.

The dreams of writing and literature I’ve carried unquestioned since I was an altar boy, in turn they have carried me to quiet, to repose. They give me license to disengage and observe the world. In payment I dutifully provide a few decomposed sentences that have been revised, rewritten, questioned, tortured for more information, and then filed as magnetic data. It’s something like religion. Writing has been my monastery. A near silent lifetime of reading and writing has been the defining and confining discipline of my life.  And still its secretive possessive revelations, archane processes, and continual self-criticism attract me. It rewards me with spiritual struggle and a community of phantoms, living and dead. It sounds pompously creepy.  I go there to serve; ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.

But my days of confession, redemption, or therapeutic explanation are past. In this cold now, the signal traumas of my personal past mean less and less, whether Freud, Jung, Maslow, Bill W., or Dr. Phil was right, doesn’t matter. There are plenty of drugs to help me not feel any specific discomfort I choose. Even if I were more cured, more self-actualized, or even more published, it will do little to change the day to day of my future. I will write. I will die. We don’t have to talk about the why of it anymore. It seems a fitting time to consider the captain of the Ship of Death.

For many of my generation the shock of the election of Donald Trump has been like encountering a Tibetan Demon in person…or more accurately, on social media. The Internet is a distant image of a nearby world, constantly scrolling, infused with confession, anger in minutiae, religious and poetic imagery, mendacity, and a menu of fears d’jour. Many of my FBBFs are negotiating anxious apocalypses, released depressions, moral catastrophes, and dooms writ large and small. Many are writers,  I understand their stylish flourishes of dismay.Many are defriending. I will allow my age to permit me to declare much of this, illusion. Maya. Mara. Mirage. Mr. Trump may be as horrible a demon as some suppose, perhaps worse. He should be credited for the intellectual and spiritual havoc that surrounds him already. But the specific and social versions of our responses are our own projections. Those are our own orange headed demons. I read a woman’s post describing being overwhelmed, “I have to see it on social media to know if it exists.” A Twenty-first century variation of reality.

Mr. Trump’s projections are presently beyond my ken. Saying nothing ameliorative about the politics of the moment, Mr. Trump won’t be on my ship; I doubt I’m on his. He’s an active symbol in this depressive moment, but I don’t want him to possess my moments. He’s just one more part of the struggle for me to revise personal change. As I grow older, most change is revising losses. So I use some of the accreted wisdom from writing about being conscious for fifty years to attempt to write and revise this experience into a meaningful nothing special, a not inspired, a commonplace. Right now I need to write a vehicle of perseverance and appreciation to travel into these moments.

I need to see them in writing to be sure they exist. At the same time, drawing on my recent experiences I know any and  every one of the pieces I create, revise and complete can be washed away in plumbing mishap, bagged in black plastic at the curb awaiting heavy trash day, or just kicked around like any other thing in the material world until it falls to nameless ruin. Although it’s  years of invention, concentrated self-criticism, re-revisons and labor unfulfilled or completed, I know my work is already traveling in the continuum of the random past. It’s a ventriloquist’s dummy in a suitcase I carry to tell you my life. It’s already on board the ship of death.

darkness at one with darkness, up and down // and sideways utterly dark, so there is no direction any more // and the little ship is there; yet she is gone. “The Ship of Death” [68-69]

However, encountering a demon is both illusory and real. Demons serve a transformative purpose in our world.Random annihilation exists for all things. I have no notion if inanimate objects know fear or pain. There are quite beautiful experiments showing clear water possesses the molecular capacity to reflect both serenity and distress. My cosmological universe begins with Ovid and Lucretius and finds its ceiling at chapter five of “A Brief History of Time”. I can’t conceive of the fractal my sixty some light years of motion would delineate in the space/time continuum without feeling dazed. Theoretical physics has the same effect on me as Zazen. For me the nature of being alive is to continue on in the arc of life for as long as we can endure. At a friend’s suggestion, I read The Hidden Life of Trees, an account of the consciousness of the arboreal world. According to Peter Wohleben trees have prescience of their impending demise and flower abundantly. Most humans don’t possess the prescient grace of trees; that’s why we need apparitions of demons like D. H. Lawrence and Donald Trump.

Ages ago as a species we internalized the herd instinct to flee into intellectual worlds of panic and anxiety. We evolved internal migration clocks into obsessions with mechanical timekeeping. We continue to travel in migratory urges in a proud variety of vehicles, in rigid commutes, and vacation pilgrimages. But more essential to our character, we can translate personal death into abstraction. We’re not the only creature that understands or mourns death; we are the only creature that mourns its own death before it happens. We also belong to a species that has learned to distract itself from death by fixating on revising its world. We defer the simple processes of living and species procreation to construct abstract tasks. It’s as selfless and self-serving as building a church or writing an essay. I abandon living my life temporarily to write about my life. Writing is like reading only better, it empowers writers to slowly revise the tenor and details of our existence. But we always read and write in a burning library.

So…One evening I’m walking towards a labyrinth and as a bell sounds I see a Tibetan Demon.

If I revise this sentence enough times the factual details blend with what the reader needs to have happen. For instance, the labyrinth and bells do exist in my neighborhood, but the bells didn’t ring. Those realities don’t matter. But when I wrote I live near a labyrinth, readers began to doubt me more than when I wrote I saw a demon. However, for the sake of the one line story it’s imperative a Demon arrive,  although it’s the most improbable of the three  events. More fantastically I have chosen a demon that bears a passing resemblance to Donald Trump, and that fabrication makes all of it more credible. Writer and reader create an imagined bond of shared veracities in the process of writing and revising.  Not everyone lives near a labyrinth, but everyone lives near a demon.

Recall initially I was writing about “The Ship of Death”, contemplating my mortality by stanza. Instead you and I now seem to have strayed off task pursuing a Tibetan Demon that vaguely looks like the President elect. We will collaborate on this distraction only for as long as it provides us the shared pleasure of belief. Belief allows us to endure absurdity. I contemplate sad nuances of my demise and you enjoy it. What holy demonics are we looking at?

Tuesday afternoon I met friends for lunch in Santa Fe. New Mexico’s capital prides itself on being spiritually hegemonic. As we strolled around it was impossible not to see the borders of belief are constantly crossed. Posada style skulls embroidered on linen aprons, Ganeshes molded in local beeswax, milagro embossed crosses made of dried chiles, clan totems and fetishes in silver and turquoise laid on the sidewalk, prayer rugs hung in display windows next to crocodile boots, santos night lights, sandalwood malas, gemstone malas, greeting card prayers to the patron saints of domesticity, a three foot polished brass Shiva surrounded by earrings, cartons of scented votives, hand knotted Persian Qoms stacked in rolls as makeshift office walls, Kachinas scaled human and rendered in glazed ceramic and gold, mandala coloring books, calavera coloring books, sitting Buddhas in garden stone, sitting Buddhas of hardened clay, Our Lady of Guadalupe marking a ladies room, illuminated Mughal manuscript pages, imported Polish painted wood crèches, pinon incense in miniature pueblo houses, gold pendants of Gaia, prayer flags hanging above a tamale cart, Palladium prints of Angkor Wat, a startled Mexican peasant hand carved on a crucifix, bundles of white sage next to an image of the Dali Lama, nazar amulets in blue glass, Mudra broaches, nazars by Swarovski, Quan Yin standing on a sea of cashmere pashminas and, of course, windows and walls decorated with brilliant demons from Tibet in a variety of formats.

Some of this artwork is genuine, some religious replicas pretending questionable provenance, and some mere decoration, but all of it is for sale. It’s an ironic market of distractions designed to help a supplicant overcome worldly distraction. Negotiable memento mori. Visiting spiritual bazaars like these I feel at ease, floating, as if I’m almost at home, arm and arm in the company of friends. I saunter in raw weather surrounded by iconography.

A gypsy refrain played by a band of itinerant musicians drifts across the plaza. Probably I’m not much different from a medieval peasant daydreaming during services in an unheated cathedral. It was near the eve of a holiday for me, the secular-religious feast of Thanksgiving. Walking down San Francisco street, I found myself devoutly grateful to be back in love with the world. Pleased to wander through this reconstructed city of commercially celebrated death, not yet surrendering to Lawrence’s silent sea of abandon, or enduring Trumpian rule, but still alive, looking for my car along the transcendent backstreets of holiness. The lesson of the demon is always to make one see the virtues of the ordinary life, to appreciate a sip of water, a shivering afternoon drifting past silver breath by silver breath.

The flood subsides, and the body, like a worn sea-shell // emerges strange and lovely.    “The Ship of Death” [97-98]