I consider songs to envision
The imperceptible.
To rework and render
Skin and clay susceptible
To delight, darkness and delicacy
Like trembling, painted fingers
Trailing along a frozen frame
Of glowing glass.
I consider songs the rich
Omnibus of man
And the portrait of his passions
Is a lusty garden of words.
All songs ripen the vine
And spill blue rivers of thunder
Through history.
I can touch the age of the moon
And this living acquiescence to joy
Is the quicksilver hand of God
Moving upon the deep.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Forgiveness
If my forgiveness were sapphires,
I would crown you with a crest of color
That I cannot command.
If my forgiveness were a feast,
I would serve you luminous fruits
Of sweet persimmon.
The riches would run deeper than the stars
And dispel the fevered stupor
Of my rage
Because they are not of me.
They are paltry tokens,
They are the glittering frost of regret.
I cannot yet forgive you.
I harbor hidden songs that scatter
The fading body of my pardon.
I would crown you with a crest of color
That I cannot command.
If my forgiveness were a feast,
I would serve you luminous fruits
Of sweet persimmon.
The riches would run deeper than the stars
And dispel the fevered stupor
Of my rage
Because they are not of me.
They are paltry tokens,
They are the glittering frost of regret.
I cannot yet forgive you.
I harbor hidden songs that scatter
The fading body of my pardon.
Friday, February 26, 2010
The Girls
I sing to the girls from fading windows,
Girls like the early leaves of autumn,
Buckled by blustery, windswept affairs.
Girls swathed with smoky electricity,
Like red bolts of budding energy,
Stitching the fabric of my voyage.
They come to my window and find
That they may sit at my side
But they reach out for me and see
That I am too far away.
I have seen them at every window,
Flush and loitering
Waiting for my voice to have
The same eloquence as my words.
These girls in their ginger dresses
With eyes like gray partitions of cloud
Arrayed to bulwark the sun
Will blast open the mouth of heaven
And fill my window with their light.
However, there are fewer girls now
And no window is the same.
The swollen perspective of loneliness
Lingers over the world
And splashes of light leave leaden marks
On what should otherwise be celebration.
I am not the same man
And the girls have changed as well.
We cling to diminished colors
And the icy, glassy taste of beauty
Slices our mouth with its shattered allure.
Girls like the early leaves of autumn,
Buckled by blustery, windswept affairs.
Girls swathed with smoky electricity,
Like red bolts of budding energy,
Stitching the fabric of my voyage.
They come to my window and find
That they may sit at my side
But they reach out for me and see
That I am too far away.
I have seen them at every window,
Flush and loitering
Waiting for my voice to have
The same eloquence as my words.
These girls in their ginger dresses
With eyes like gray partitions of cloud
Arrayed to bulwark the sun
Will blast open the mouth of heaven
And fill my window with their light.
However, there are fewer girls now
And no window is the same.
The swollen perspective of loneliness
Lingers over the world
And splashes of light leave leaden marks
On what should otherwise be celebration.
I am not the same man
And the girls have changed as well.
We cling to diminished colors
And the icy, glassy taste of beauty
Slices our mouth with its shattered allure.
I Knew A Woman
I once knew a woman who wanted to die;
That’s all she said again and again.
I wanted her without knowing why
And sought to savor her skin.
Our swim through ethanol pools
Found me passed over the rest
Who worked her over with tools
Her errant mouth blessed.
I once knew a woman who wanted to die
Adrift in a vessel of glass.
Her baby boy would cry and cry
While the men crept past.
That’s all she said again and again.
I wanted her without knowing why
And sought to savor her skin.
Our swim through ethanol pools
Found me passed over the rest
Who worked her over with tools
Her errant mouth blessed.
I once knew a woman who wanted to die
Adrift in a vessel of glass.
Her baby boy would cry and cry
While the men crept past.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Thoughts On Writers, Chemicals and Creativity
Ernest Hemingway blew away a substantial portion of his cranium on a lovely Idaho morning in 1961. The stories of his drinking are legion. To this day, the cult of alcohol that surrounds the Hemingway myth is celebrated and openly embraced despite the fact that alcoholism worked in concert with familial mental illness to rob us of one of the most distinctive individual voices in literary history. A massive heart attack claimed F. Scott Fitzgerald in the living room of a Hollywood bungalow. He hadn’t yet reached the age of fifty years old. The boyish flame of his gin-soaked youth is still the stuff of legend in American letters, and even the end he faced as he attempted to break into Hollywood only to sabotage his best efforts with embarrassing binges has acquired a sense of tragic, profound gravitas that it does not deserve. It wasn’t some sort of epic grandeur in the end surrounding a writer who offered prose ringing with the same sensitivity that Keats brought to his poetry. It was the stench of a tawdry and homicidal murder of the human spirit via 80 proof-fueled self-pity.
Then there’s the example of Hart Crane. The stories that biographers such as Paul Mariani relate in The Broken Tower: A Life of Hart Crane suggest that alcohol was the primary destructive force in Crane’s life and did more to bring him to his eventual suicide than any other single factor in his life. He was thirty-two years old when he drunkenly leapt to his death from a ship in the Caribbean. One of Hart Crane’s most fervent devotees, Tennessee Williams, is another tragic case. Arguably, the greatest playwright that this country has ever produced, Donald Spoto’s The Kindness of Strangers offers a brutally frank portrayal of a genius who was a categorical drug addict by 1950 and burned out by his excesses by 1966. His endurance was remarkable in the annals of self-destructive artists. He continued for thirteen years following a complete mental and physical collapse in 1969 running on some aberrant synthesis of chemicals, monumental discipline, and a steely constitution. He wrote with reckless and crazed intensity, but little of it pleased him, and it pleased the public and the critics even less. His life ended in February of 1983 in a New York City hotel room when he swallowed the lid of a pill bottle he was likely using to spoon pills into his mouth.
Here’s a particular favorite. The one time prodigy of a particularly extraordinary generation of American poets, Delmore Schwartz ended his promising career in a New York City flophouse corridor dead from a heart attack in 1966. It was two days before anyone claimed the body. An accomplished poet, an incisive critic, and an unique prose stylist, Schwartz was also unique in his facility amongst a generation that included such luminaries as Robert Lowell, John Berryman, and Theodore Roethke. It seemed like he could do anything and that he would be one of the leading lights of American letters for decades to come. His world was full of epic combat, great leaps of ambition, and a truly prodigious sense of competitiveness. Liquor and pills were a constant through it all and by 1940, he was unraveling. The liquor made him increasingly undependable both professionally and personally. His behavior grew erratic. A famous Robert Lowell sonnet memorably depicts Schwartz in those final years “casing the bars with the eye of a Mongol horseman”. Long after his death, Saul Bellow wrote a novel that, in part, memorialized Schwartz and his dismal descent into insanity and chronic addiction entitled Humboldt’s Gift. Coming off his recent Nobel win and debatably the King of the American novel at the time, the critics took note of Bellow’s interest and the laurels for Schwartz were appropriately elegiac and suffused with praise. However, such praise was scarce when 20+ years of alcohol and Dexedrine abuse left Delmore Schwartz tearing his clothes from his body in desperate, but ultimately vain, attempt to breathe.
Let’s discuss Truman Capote. Hailed by Norman Mailer in his work Advertisements for Myself as “the most perfect writer of my generation”, Capote was a truly prodigious and unique talent who thrust himself into the American consciousness with intemperate zeal typical of those who need approval the most. His appearance coupled with his offbeat physical affectations did more to set him apart in the American iconography of his time than what his skills with the written word ever did. His need for love was uninhibited and craven. It was likewise insatiable and that ferocious void would prove his undoing. He quit writing and assumed the role of raconteur and full-time libertine. His appearances on “The Tonight Show” are the stuff of legend. He embraced distraction and distraction manifested itself in the form of vast repositories of vodka, gin, and wine that he poured down his throat with unwavering devotion. By 1984, CAT scans revealed that his brain had actually undergone a verifiable loss of mass and he was subject to frequent and often terrifying hallucinations. He died that year at the age of 59.
How about William Faulkner? The deleterious effects that corn whiskey had on Faulkner are readily apparent when you read a book like Absalom, Absalom! and compare it to a later work such as The Reivers. To read the former is an experience akin to earning a vast, panoramic glimpse into the deepest vistas of human history. Its charged, turbulent language sweeps you along with tidal force and every wrinkle in the plot possesses a sense of inevitability that only truly magisterial works of art can claim. By the time you have delved deeply into A Fable, you cannot help but note that the writer you once knew has been scattered, his once mighty powers dissipated and henceforth unrecoverable. Like Tennessee Williams, Faulkner demonstrated tremendous endurance in the face of his addiction, but in the end, he was another writer dying in the aftermath of one final, destructive binge.
There are more. There’s Dylan Thomas, Malcolm Lowry, and Jack Kerouac. There’s John Berryman. Author of The Dream Songs, one of the finest poetic works written by an American and one of the major poetic works of the 20th century, Berryman struggled with a monstrous addiction to alcohol throughout his entire adult life. Unable to maintain sobriety after numerous attempts, Berryman, in despair, leapt to his death from the Washington Avenue Bridge in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Berryman, a child of suicide, left a six-month-old daughter behind.
With exceptions, it is an uniquely American phenomenon. There is a swaggering bravado to American writers that seems absent from other writers. Their ambitions are often crass and crippling, their sense of primacy is inflated and unjustified, and their solipsism is prodigious and demanding. The American writer does not look to write meditative works of fiction seeking to investigate the secret needs, wants, and fears of the human heart. Instead, writers like Faulkner sought impossible summits such as “putting all of mankind’s history into one sentence”. Writers like Hemingway steeped their discussions of craft in heavy-handed, frequently labored, sports metaphors. Many American writers have needed to play the big shot for some reason. They have measured their self worth by the wayward estimations of artistic achievement. It is not coincidental that alcoholics among these writers are legion. Who wouldn’t crack under the idea that you need to produce a masterpiece every time you write?
Lastly, it has nothing to do with a celebration of life. Instead of being a zesty affirmation of living for the moment, it is a negation of life itself. It diminishes our God given gifts to such an extent that it borders on contempt. I believe that it is contempt for the price that one must pay if they desire to do serious work. Writers spend a lot of time alone. While the rest of the world is out enjoying a sparkling summer day, a novelist is apt to be found in some small room, alone and wrestling with his words. To the layperson, this may seem sad, even a little pathetic. Why would anyone want to be alone writing in a stuffy room while the summer is in full swing? However, to a serious writer, an artist, it’s all in a day’s work and par for the course. As well, stop to consider the fundamental paradox at the heart of a novelist’s life. The novelist, in essence, is an artful liar, an individual who sets down a series of events and conversations that have no factual basis in reality. The definitions of truth and reality which society commonly shares mean little to the writer. The writer is someone who lives with their own private truth, as well as personal mythology that is often a wellspring for their work.
It is a personal mythology that can compel the writer to see him or herself as being a lone voice crying in the wilderness, the sole conduit between the mind of the universe and mankind. The writer, especially the alcoholic variety, can see themselves as beset on all sides by barbarism that dismisses him and does not attempt to understand the writer’s clandestine agonies. Such a frame of mind is a breeding ground for ego and self-pity. Convinced that he is terminally unique and therefore entitled to special considerations, this writer has lost all perspective and, most importantly, his humility. More disastrously, his alcoholic bluster is a serious obstacle in the way of the writer completing any meaningful work. Instead of writing about the important things in life and serving his muse, he explores his own personal mythology even further, elaborates on it, and, ultimately, learns to rely on trivia and memory when invention fails.
Let us declare an end to the murder of the creative spirit. There must be an end to the tragedies and the suicides that have silenced voices that challenged life and embraced its rich bounty. Those among us who have struggled with both King Alcohol and the written word know that we are fortunate to have the facility for categorizing our perceptions, experiences and emotions in artistic or psychologically pleasing constructs. At our best, we are much more on the page than what we ever are in our daily lives and the best among us have the ability to instruct and enrich the entire fabric of human experience. Furthermore, we know that our struggles are not the price we pay for these gifts. Instead, those struggles are self-indulgence and exhibitionism in the worst degree. As well, they are lazy. So instead of wasting our days in some dismal attempt to lose ourselves, let us take up our pens, let us confront that blank page, and as long as we can feel the spirit, let us serve the spirit of life with a joy that is real and resolute.
Then there’s the example of Hart Crane. The stories that biographers such as Paul Mariani relate in The Broken Tower: A Life of Hart Crane suggest that alcohol was the primary destructive force in Crane’s life and did more to bring him to his eventual suicide than any other single factor in his life. He was thirty-two years old when he drunkenly leapt to his death from a ship in the Caribbean. One of Hart Crane’s most fervent devotees, Tennessee Williams, is another tragic case. Arguably, the greatest playwright that this country has ever produced, Donald Spoto’s The Kindness of Strangers offers a brutally frank portrayal of a genius who was a categorical drug addict by 1950 and burned out by his excesses by 1966. His endurance was remarkable in the annals of self-destructive artists. He continued for thirteen years following a complete mental and physical collapse in 1969 running on some aberrant synthesis of chemicals, monumental discipline, and a steely constitution. He wrote with reckless and crazed intensity, but little of it pleased him, and it pleased the public and the critics even less. His life ended in February of 1983 in a New York City hotel room when he swallowed the lid of a pill bottle he was likely using to spoon pills into his mouth.
Here’s a particular favorite. The one time prodigy of a particularly extraordinary generation of American poets, Delmore Schwartz ended his promising career in a New York City flophouse corridor dead from a heart attack in 1966. It was two days before anyone claimed the body. An accomplished poet, an incisive critic, and an unique prose stylist, Schwartz was also unique in his facility amongst a generation that included such luminaries as Robert Lowell, John Berryman, and Theodore Roethke. It seemed like he could do anything and that he would be one of the leading lights of American letters for decades to come. His world was full of epic combat, great leaps of ambition, and a truly prodigious sense of competitiveness. Liquor and pills were a constant through it all and by 1940, he was unraveling. The liquor made him increasingly undependable both professionally and personally. His behavior grew erratic. A famous Robert Lowell sonnet memorably depicts Schwartz in those final years “casing the bars with the eye of a Mongol horseman”. Long after his death, Saul Bellow wrote a novel that, in part, memorialized Schwartz and his dismal descent into insanity and chronic addiction entitled Humboldt’s Gift. Coming off his recent Nobel win and debatably the King of the American novel at the time, the critics took note of Bellow’s interest and the laurels for Schwartz were appropriately elegiac and suffused with praise. However, such praise was scarce when 20+ years of alcohol and Dexedrine abuse left Delmore Schwartz tearing his clothes from his body in desperate, but ultimately vain, attempt to breathe.
Let’s discuss Truman Capote. Hailed by Norman Mailer in his work Advertisements for Myself as “the most perfect writer of my generation”, Capote was a truly prodigious and unique talent who thrust himself into the American consciousness with intemperate zeal typical of those who need approval the most. His appearance coupled with his offbeat physical affectations did more to set him apart in the American iconography of his time than what his skills with the written word ever did. His need for love was uninhibited and craven. It was likewise insatiable and that ferocious void would prove his undoing. He quit writing and assumed the role of raconteur and full-time libertine. His appearances on “The Tonight Show” are the stuff of legend. He embraced distraction and distraction manifested itself in the form of vast repositories of vodka, gin, and wine that he poured down his throat with unwavering devotion. By 1984, CAT scans revealed that his brain had actually undergone a verifiable loss of mass and he was subject to frequent and often terrifying hallucinations. He died that year at the age of 59.
How about William Faulkner? The deleterious effects that corn whiskey had on Faulkner are readily apparent when you read a book like Absalom, Absalom! and compare it to a later work such as The Reivers. To read the former is an experience akin to earning a vast, panoramic glimpse into the deepest vistas of human history. Its charged, turbulent language sweeps you along with tidal force and every wrinkle in the plot possesses a sense of inevitability that only truly magisterial works of art can claim. By the time you have delved deeply into A Fable, you cannot help but note that the writer you once knew has been scattered, his once mighty powers dissipated and henceforth unrecoverable. Like Tennessee Williams, Faulkner demonstrated tremendous endurance in the face of his addiction, but in the end, he was another writer dying in the aftermath of one final, destructive binge.
There are more. There’s Dylan Thomas, Malcolm Lowry, and Jack Kerouac. There’s John Berryman. Author of The Dream Songs, one of the finest poetic works written by an American and one of the major poetic works of the 20th century, Berryman struggled with a monstrous addiction to alcohol throughout his entire adult life. Unable to maintain sobriety after numerous attempts, Berryman, in despair, leapt to his death from the Washington Avenue Bridge in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Berryman, a child of suicide, left a six-month-old daughter behind.
With exceptions, it is an uniquely American phenomenon. There is a swaggering bravado to American writers that seems absent from other writers. Their ambitions are often crass and crippling, their sense of primacy is inflated and unjustified, and their solipsism is prodigious and demanding. The American writer does not look to write meditative works of fiction seeking to investigate the secret needs, wants, and fears of the human heart. Instead, writers like Faulkner sought impossible summits such as “putting all of mankind’s history into one sentence”. Writers like Hemingway steeped their discussions of craft in heavy-handed, frequently labored, sports metaphors. Many American writers have needed to play the big shot for some reason. They have measured their self worth by the wayward estimations of artistic achievement. It is not coincidental that alcoholics among these writers are legion. Who wouldn’t crack under the idea that you need to produce a masterpiece every time you write?
Lastly, it has nothing to do with a celebration of life. Instead of being a zesty affirmation of living for the moment, it is a negation of life itself. It diminishes our God given gifts to such an extent that it borders on contempt. I believe that it is contempt for the price that one must pay if they desire to do serious work. Writers spend a lot of time alone. While the rest of the world is out enjoying a sparkling summer day, a novelist is apt to be found in some small room, alone and wrestling with his words. To the layperson, this may seem sad, even a little pathetic. Why would anyone want to be alone writing in a stuffy room while the summer is in full swing? However, to a serious writer, an artist, it’s all in a day’s work and par for the course. As well, stop to consider the fundamental paradox at the heart of a novelist’s life. The novelist, in essence, is an artful liar, an individual who sets down a series of events and conversations that have no factual basis in reality. The definitions of truth and reality which society commonly shares mean little to the writer. The writer is someone who lives with their own private truth, as well as personal mythology that is often a wellspring for their work.
It is a personal mythology that can compel the writer to see him or herself as being a lone voice crying in the wilderness, the sole conduit between the mind of the universe and mankind. The writer, especially the alcoholic variety, can see themselves as beset on all sides by barbarism that dismisses him and does not attempt to understand the writer’s clandestine agonies. Such a frame of mind is a breeding ground for ego and self-pity. Convinced that he is terminally unique and therefore entitled to special considerations, this writer has lost all perspective and, most importantly, his humility. More disastrously, his alcoholic bluster is a serious obstacle in the way of the writer completing any meaningful work. Instead of writing about the important things in life and serving his muse, he explores his own personal mythology even further, elaborates on it, and, ultimately, learns to rely on trivia and memory when invention fails.
Let us declare an end to the murder of the creative spirit. There must be an end to the tragedies and the suicides that have silenced voices that challenged life and embraced its rich bounty. Those among us who have struggled with both King Alcohol and the written word know that we are fortunate to have the facility for categorizing our perceptions, experiences and emotions in artistic or psychologically pleasing constructs. At our best, we are much more on the page than what we ever are in our daily lives and the best among us have the ability to instruct and enrich the entire fabric of human experience. Furthermore, we know that our struggles are not the price we pay for these gifts. Instead, those struggles are self-indulgence and exhibitionism in the worst degree. As well, they are lazy. So instead of wasting our days in some dismal attempt to lose ourselves, let us take up our pens, let us confront that blank page, and as long as we can feel the spirit, let us serve the spirit of life with a joy that is real and resolute.
To The Fabricator of Fiascos
The fabricator of fiascos,
Like the bird that breaks the window
With its insistent, suicidal streak.
Like the sudden sweep into traffic
Or over the cliff
With monumental eyes
And wide disregard.
Like all of these things, you are feckless
And the bounty of life is lost on you.
The providence of navigators,
Forbearance,
Has no power over your compass.
The inky fury of your forays
Is the story of a burdened vessel
That forfeits the privilege of passage
To a shrill, shirking death.
I am the spirit of calamity
And I come in red bursts of pity
That clot the eyes
And pierce my swollen tongue.
I live in your glittering fictions,
In your vivid proximity,
And will take you when you are young.
Like the bird that breaks the window
With its insistent, suicidal streak.
Like the sudden sweep into traffic
Or over the cliff
With monumental eyes
And wide disregard.
Like all of these things, you are feckless
And the bounty of life is lost on you.
The providence of navigators,
Forbearance,
Has no power over your compass.
The inky fury of your forays
Is the story of a burdened vessel
That forfeits the privilege of passage
To a shrill, shirking death.
I am the spirit of calamity
And I come in red bursts of pity
That clot the eyes
And pierce my swollen tongue.
I live in your glittering fictions,
In your vivid proximity,
And will take you when you are young.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Late Night Musings
Growing older has brought me unexpected blessings. Despite our inevitable end, aging doesn't have to be an experience filled with fear and desperation.
One of the things I have learned is that when it comes to politics, religion, and so on, I am likely fated to have an assortment of views that fails to conform with any one "side". When I turn on the news, I don't see some political party striving for loftier goals and fighting the proverbial good fight against The Forces of Darkness. What I see and hear is cultural and racial intolerance, rage, and arrogance on both sides, manifested in different forms. Both sides belittle each other, pull dirty tricks on each other, manipulate the public en masse, and fleece the existing social structure while trumpeting themselves as agents of change restoring hope to the nation. I will choose my own side in these endless conflicts and work on a personal level to improve my connections with the world. The personal is political and when we work at qualities like tolerance, acceptance, and forgiveness, our efforts influence others and when we leave this life, we perhaps accomplish much more than a single vote, tallied among millions, leaves upon the body politic.
If someone says to you that they've got the right answers to the important issues of the day, beware that person. I fear those who, by the power of their convictions alone, believe that insight and intellect have ordained them as being justified to bend the will of men and nations to their direction. I have my personal beliefs and I will stand for them, but I certainly do not assume that those beliefs and opinions provide an infallible blueprint for life and justice.
I believe that every man and woman, regardless of circumstance, deserve the same opportunities at personal happiness and professional success to do with as they see fit. I believe that every man and woman are entitled to pursue any belief system that they wish provided that they do not attempt to impose their beliefs on my life. I believe in the right of opposition, the struggle against the darker elements of human experience. However, I will never give myself over to a struggle which, in its singular arrogance, is every bit as rigid and dogmatic as the oppression it seeks to derail. If someone says to you that they know what's right for all of us, run away. Fast.
I am a liberal who values tradition while scorning the prejudices long institutionalized in our culture. I am a natural skeptic with tremendous, inchoate religious feeling stirring inside of me. I will no longer identify myself with any one political party. I do not believe that poverty can be eradicated from our society and feel that too many confuse unattainable, but noble, goals with benchmarks that humanity can actually reach. There is no Utopia. There is no end to racial, economic and cultural prejudice. So long as there are three people on earth, there will be a pecking order. What matters is the struggle to make our world better, not some sentimental, unreachable idea of a perfect day. I find that struggle immensely rewarding and not at all demoralizing.
I don't want to be part of the same obsessiveness, vehemence and outright rage that burdens every attempt to discuss politics, religion, and other social issues. Our national dialogue is wrecked and we verbally assault each other from opposite sides of vast oceans of misunderstanding. We nurse our ancient pains as fuel for diatribes against institutions that failed us in our childhood. We scream and cry out that the cruel world should change, we elect demagogue father-figures in the hope that they will fix it all, and we refuse to change the most basic of things - our hearts and minds.
I hope mankind, in all its guises, one day rises above the crass.
One of the things I have learned is that when it comes to politics, religion, and so on, I am likely fated to have an assortment of views that fails to conform with any one "side". When I turn on the news, I don't see some political party striving for loftier goals and fighting the proverbial good fight against The Forces of Darkness. What I see and hear is cultural and racial intolerance, rage, and arrogance on both sides, manifested in different forms. Both sides belittle each other, pull dirty tricks on each other, manipulate the public en masse, and fleece the existing social structure while trumpeting themselves as agents of change restoring hope to the nation. I will choose my own side in these endless conflicts and work on a personal level to improve my connections with the world. The personal is political and when we work at qualities like tolerance, acceptance, and forgiveness, our efforts influence others and when we leave this life, we perhaps accomplish much more than a single vote, tallied among millions, leaves upon the body politic.
If someone says to you that they've got the right answers to the important issues of the day, beware that person. I fear those who, by the power of their convictions alone, believe that insight and intellect have ordained them as being justified to bend the will of men and nations to their direction. I have my personal beliefs and I will stand for them, but I certainly do not assume that those beliefs and opinions provide an infallible blueprint for life and justice.
I believe that every man and woman, regardless of circumstance, deserve the same opportunities at personal happiness and professional success to do with as they see fit. I believe that every man and woman are entitled to pursue any belief system that they wish provided that they do not attempt to impose their beliefs on my life. I believe in the right of opposition, the struggle against the darker elements of human experience. However, I will never give myself over to a struggle which, in its singular arrogance, is every bit as rigid and dogmatic as the oppression it seeks to derail. If someone says to you that they know what's right for all of us, run away. Fast.
I am a liberal who values tradition while scorning the prejudices long institutionalized in our culture. I am a natural skeptic with tremendous, inchoate religious feeling stirring inside of me. I will no longer identify myself with any one political party. I do not believe that poverty can be eradicated from our society and feel that too many confuse unattainable, but noble, goals with benchmarks that humanity can actually reach. There is no Utopia. There is no end to racial, economic and cultural prejudice. So long as there are three people on earth, there will be a pecking order. What matters is the struggle to make our world better, not some sentimental, unreachable idea of a perfect day. I find that struggle immensely rewarding and not at all demoralizing.
I don't want to be part of the same obsessiveness, vehemence and outright rage that burdens every attempt to discuss politics, religion, and other social issues. Our national dialogue is wrecked and we verbally assault each other from opposite sides of vast oceans of misunderstanding. We nurse our ancient pains as fuel for diatribes against institutions that failed us in our childhood. We scream and cry out that the cruel world should change, we elect demagogue father-figures in the hope that they will fix it all, and we refuse to change the most basic of things - our hearts and minds.
I hope mankind, in all its guises, one day rises above the crass.
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