Two Quotations that Can Save the Day The Drifter

(All images by The Drifter)

“Happy are you when men insult you, and persecute you, and tell all kinds of evil lies against you because you are my followers. Be glad and happy, because a great reward is kept for you in heaven. This is how men persecuted the prophets who lived before you.”

This week The Drifter will write little in order to let two quotations carry the day (four if you count the photos but the D will only write directly about the two quotations included in the text, one above, one below.)

When outrage and despair at the state of the world begin to get you down, to gnaw at, or devour, your mind, heart, and/or soul, these two quotations can bring tranquility and peace in their wake.

But that’s only if you let them work on you. And by work on you, I mean that you have to let these quotations hit you hard. And in order for that to happen, requirement number one is that you must have an open mind, and heart. Secondly, you must be willing to work at it. You have to let the quotations find you where you really are. It used to be called studying. Now when we say “studying” we usually only mean rote learning, i.e. going to “school” and memorizing the dubious “facts” they attempt to jam down your throat. I have two twins who graduated from high school last year, and I myself have taught for a total of at least twenty-three years at many different kinds of colleges and universities all across the rough-and-tumble Midwest, also including a three-year stint at a Catholic elementary school called Saint Leonard Parish School in Berwyn, Illinois, USA, with a ninety-nine percent Mexican student population (Leonard is the patron saint of prisoners, addicts, horses, and depressed people, which is perfect for me, and I also used to listen to Leonard Cohen on my way to and from work every day) (Leonard is also the patron saint of a woman with child or children, i.e. preggo), and I can say with an utter certainty that institutionalized education in the USA no longer encourages critical thinking and imaginative exploration in the way it once did (if it ever did). SELF EDUCATION is just as utterly crucial as it ever was, y’all. Everything is available; now you gotta use it.

The first quote is from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, as recorded by Matthew, the Evangelist. “Evangelist” means someone who brings good news to those who desperately need it. Good news that is not easy to swallow, or follow, either, but is also NOT AN ILLUSION. As Jim Morrison said, you need to break on through to the other side before this News will make you leap out of your seat and begin dancing (metaphorically at least).

The second quotation is an entire sonnet by the English radical poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley, who was a kind of Jim Morrison before Jim Morrison (although much less famous than his friend Lord Byron while they lived). Shelley was born into a cush life and he could have stayed there forever had he wanted to, or had he been born that way. Instead, he threw sand in the face of his whole society almost immediately upon opening his eyes and he fought tooth and nail for the downtrodden and the outcast his entire life, and against hypocrisy (he could smell hypocrisy while still in the cradle) – and he died young (29) because he was worn out young in the struggle. Shelley called for and helped invent the modern form of nonviolent resistance. He inspired Henry David Thoreau, who inspired Leo Tolstoy, who inspired Mahatma Gandhi, who inspired Martin Luther King, Jr., who inspired the recently deceased Reverend Jesse Jackson.

The sonnet is printed here in paragraph form in order to defamiliarize it. It works just as well as a prose paragraph as it does in verse.

It was written just a little over two hundred years ago.

The Drifter will draw out what he believes to be the deepest message for our age after this sonnet which sounds so completely familiar and close to what’s going on in our world now that it should (rightly) give you the chills, or at least goosebumps:

“An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying King; / Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow / Through public scorn – mud from a muddy spring; / Rulers who neither see nor feel nor know, / But leechlike to their fainting country cling / Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow. / A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field; / An army, whom liberticide and prey / Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield; / Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay; / Religion Christless, Godless – a book sealed; / A senate, Time’s worst Statute, unrepealed; / Are graves from which a glorious Phantom may / Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day.”

The age of waiting for someone else to do it for you is over. Make yourself be the Glorious Phantom bursting into the True Light, like Shelley did, however persecuted and unfamous he was (and he was both of those things). Everyone has a daimon, or form of genius, inside them. Some choose to cultivate it and will die first before not cultivating it. These are the ones who know the best advice is: DO NOT LET “THEM” GET YOU DOWN (it’s exactly what “they” want). The world has always been this way, and it always will be this way, too (more or less, and more, and less). Even nuclear war or environmental catastrophe, which might wipe out an entire (now global) civilization, is nothing new, since entire civilizations have been wiped out virtually overnight thousands, and maybe even millions, of times – and there has always been the ever-present threat of a dinosaur-destroying-like meteor peeking its head over the horizon at any time, like the worst uninvited guest you could ever imagine (the Native Americans knew this.) “AI”?!? The ancient Egyptians both predicted, and simulated, it, and the cave people in their caves waving their torches around on the cave painting walls while intoning messages to the gods and cutting themselves so they bled profusely while devouring mouthfuls of magic mushrooms had a virtual reality that would knock your socks off if you were wearing any, which they weren’t. Yes, the world has always been this way.

And that means there are always better days waiting somewhere up around the bend. But not in the usual nausea-inducing, Hallmark Greeting Card kind of way.

We always live life for our Future Self (somehow), but we MAKE our future self today. Never stop striving forward with calmness – never (not even when on the threshold of death, or maybe especially not then; Martin Luther, the greatest radical of all time in the modern Western world, believed that everything could change in an instant in that moment).

((Maybe creating is so important to us because the God who made us is also a Creator.))

The Drifter

Castles in the Air by Bill Tope

(Today we welcome back Bill Tope,–who appeared earlier in a collaboration with Doug Hawley–for his first solo appearance on the Springs. The image is by our friend CJA)

Tommy’s voice was low-pitched and urgent as he murmured beseechingly to his wife. She didn’t respond. He gazed at her, strewn across their bed, her auburn tresses spilling over the pillow. She looked beautiful to him, despite the way she’d let herself go since the baby died. Tommy remembered that it had been only weeks, but the heartbreak seemed to stretch back as far as he could recall, years almost, owing to Rachel’s mental history.

The child they had waited for five years for had been stillborn and it still took his breath away to remember. Rachel had taken it especially hard. She felt as though she had let him down. He was forever telling her she hadn’t failed him. That sometimes, things just happened. She worried that it was because she had smoked occasionally during her pregnancy and had maybe one or two glasses of wine, late in her term. He told her she was mistaken.

“Baby,” he said, “you need to get up and take a shower. Brush your teeth and wash your hair.” It had been so long since she first became immersed in her grief.

“I can’t,” she said simply.

Tommy nodded. He understood that he would just have to be patient. What was it the priest had said? Time heals all wounds or some nonsense like that. But maybe it was true.

“Can I get you some fresh clothes, Rach?” he asked.

She sniffed her bed clothes and nodded. “I’m sorry I let myself go, Tommy,” she said in a small voice.

“It’s alright,” he told her. “You heal. Take whatever time you need I’ll be here for you.” Tommy slipped from the room and closed the door behind him. Thank goodness people had stopped dropping by to offer condolences. They meant well, he knew, but each time they tore the wound wider. It would just take time, he told himself again.

All their lives was wrapped up in just the two of them. Diagnosed years before with avoidant personality disorder, Rachel was inordinately shy, withdrawn and non-assertive. She had drifted from one unchallenging job to the next since her marriage to Tommy, four years before, at age 21.

“I quit my job today, Tommy,” she said one day.

“But why, Babe?” he’d asked. “You loved that job.”

Rachel had been employed at a nursery, caring for and selling plants. She adored all living things.

“Mrs. Dickinson,” she said, “told me I wasn’t doing a good job.”

When Tommy called her boss, she told Tommy that she had merely made suggestions to Rachel, regarding how she could make more sales.

“Rachel got very upset, Mr. Johnson,” said Dickinson. “It wasn’t even criticism, and she went all to pieces.”

Tommy explained about his wife’s diagnosed personality disorder and intense shyness and her boss seemed sympathetic. “Tell her to come back,” she said. “I’ll hire her again. She’s very good with the plants, but she gets her feelings hurt easily.”

But Rachel wouldn’t return to Plants R Us, saying she felt inadequate.

The first year of their marriage, at Tommy insistence, Rachel had seen a therapist, but the results were a mixed bag. Dr. Fuller explained Rachel’s condition to Tommy, who attended the last session with her. The doctor said that based on his private talks with Rachel, he concluded that emotional abuse during her formative years and sexual trauma at 17 had led to her condition.

“She never told me about emotional abuse,” Tommy had said. “But, she almost never talks about her family.” She had told him about her rape as a teen. Intimacy between them had been touch and go.

Because of her associated depression, the therapist had prescribed some antidepressants, but they seemed to have little effect.

One day Rachel approached Tommy and placed her arms around his neck. She didn’t often show overt affection, thought Tommy.

“Tommy, I want a baby,” she’d said.

This was wonderful news, thought Tommy. “Are you sure, Rach?” He had begun to despair of ever starting a family.

“Of course,” she said, leaning in for a kiss. “It would make my life complete.”

Rachel’s therapist had retired, so Tommy consulted Rachel’s personal physician and asked what he thought.

“Could be the best thing for her,” declared the elderly doctor. “Might straighten her out.”

The pregnancy had gone well. Rachel seemed to have found a purpose for her existence. She stopped smoking for the most part, and drinking and getting high. She was attentive to her diet and got plenty of rest.

Then she lost the baby. In her seventh month, things went all wrong. Rachel felt sharp pains in her abdomen and began bleeding. Tommy called an ambulance and rode in the back of the vehicle on the way to the hospital.

“I’m with you, Babe,” he told her. “You’ll be alright.” But she wasn’t.

When Tommy asked her OB-GYN what had gone wrong, she said, “Mr. Johnson, there was no way to foresee what happened to Rachel. Sometimes there is no reason. Shit happens,” she said bluntly.

“I can’t wait till the baby’s born,” said Rachel dreamily from their bed several days later. She ran her hands over her belly.

Tommy stared at his wife. He had been warned by the doctor that he contacted over the web that Rachel’s reaction to her grief might be fantasy-prone personality or FPP, which she likened to maladaptive dreaming disorder, which she’d had as a teen, but with a difference.

“Your wife may not recognize what reality is and be able to tell it apart from the fantasy world that she creates. You really should seek professional help for your wife, Mr. Johnson, outside online resources.” Tommy agreed that he would.

But when Tommy brought the subject up with Rachel, she was resistent. “I’m getting better,” she claimed. “I’ll tell you what,” she said, “I’ll get out of bed and take a shower and wash my hair and get dressed in clean clothes and you’ll see, I’ll be all better.”

Reluctantly, he agreed. And for a short while, Rachel was vastly improved, if not quite her old self. She fluttered around the house, busying herself dusting and mopping and so on. Tommy had to tell her to rest up, which she did.

Next day, she was again languishing in the bedroom, listless. She practically stopped eating. Tommy began to worry when she started losing weight. He entered the bedroom bearing a tray on which he brought her a toasted cheese sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup, long her favorite. She promised she’d eat it, but when he returned an hour later, the meal sat untouched.

Tommy glanced at his cell phone and noted the date: Oct. 30. Today was the three-month anniversary of the loss of their child. He sighed. In all that time, almost nothing had changed. He had managed to get Rachel to bathe every few days, but otherwise she seemed little improved. She stayed in bed all day.

Tommy was replacing the vacuum sweeper in the hall closet when he heard a thump from behind the bedroom door. What had happened? he wondered wildly. Had Rachel fallen? He slammed the closet door and rushed to the bedroom, threw the door open.

“Rach?” he cried. She was nude and lying upon the floor, between the bed and the door. She had fallen out of bed. He knelt and lifted her back onto the mattress. She seemed weightless. What he saw horrified him: she was stick-thin. She had lost so much weight. She lay limply where he laid her on the surface of the bed. Tommy cradled her shoulders and held her close.

“God, Rachel, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it had gone this far.” She murmured into his shoulder and he jumped. “I’ll get help, Baby,” he promised, and gingerly laid her flat upon the mattress. Taking out his cell, he called 911 and got the operator, told her his name, address, what he could about his wife’s condition. The operator promised the EMTs would come straight out.

15 minutes later a loud knock sounded on the front door and Tommy rushed into the living room, swept open the door.

“Thank you, thank you,” he stammered, and led the first responders to the bedroom, answering their questions on the way.

“Wait here, Mr. Johnson,” said one of the men. “We’ll take it from here. Tommy waited outside the door. After a few seconds, the man who appeared to be in charge reemerged and asked Tommy, “where is she?”

Tommy’s eyes widened and he rushed into the bedroom and found the room empty.

“Could she have moved from this room?” asked the man.

Tommy collapsed on the neatly-made bed and stared vacantly around the room. The EMT was on his radio. After a moment’s conversation, he turned to the other emergenccy worker and explained, “Rachel Johnson died during childbirth three months ago.” He turned to Tommy. “That’s right, isn’t it, Mr.Johnson?”

Finally Tommy found his voice. “Yes, I guess it is.”

Meanwhile, the other first responder had fetched a collapsible gurney.

“Lie down, Mr. Johnson,” suggested the man. “We’ll take you to the hospital, get you some help.”

“Okay,” said Tommy, as he stretched out on the gurney, felt himself being strapped in. As the EMTs wheeled the gurney through the front door, Tommy felt the cool breeze of Autumn on his skin. “I need to leave a note for my wife,” he told the men.

“We’ll do it, Mr. Johnson,” said one of them.

“Okay,” said Tommy. “Thanks.”

Bill Tope

Happening (A Minologue) by Geraint Jonathan

If I hear you say ‘what happens, happens’ just one more time, I’ll be responsible for my actions and it won’t be pretty. What happens happens, what the fuck am I supposed to do with that? What doesn’t happen doesn’t happen, what do you say to that? No don’t, please, don’t answer that, I’m sure there’s a perfectly unreasonable explanation. Things happen, don’t happen, might happen, have happened, will happen, may never happen: I get it. We all just happen along, as you say. But at this precise moment, I happen to be what’s known in the trade as mightily pissed off. Unnervingly so, if I say it myself. That what happens just happens to happen because it happens to happen is no good to me. As to what’s actually happened, it could’ve done with not happening, trust me, its having happened at all being the very thing that shouldn’t have happened. And even though it has happened, I can’t, like you, shrug it off saying ‘these things happen.’ That these things of course do happen is of no consolation at all. They’re not supposed to happen, that’s the whole point. But it’s happened and I’m the one it’s happened to. There’s no getting away from it. Or perhaps there is. Maybe you happen to know what no one else happens to know. Any chance of that? Happening, I mean.

Geraint Jonathan

(Image by CJA)

The Girl Who Tilted the Earth by David Henson

A waitress finds her

wailing and convulsing

‘midst porcelain and tile.

A fighter, she held on

‘til methadone prevailed.

Her history scares

couples wanting to adopt.

She grows up wandering

in a forest of fosters.

When she’s thirteen,

a man sneaks into her room,

puts his hand over her mouth.

She takes to the streets,

her body her coin.

Robbed of innocence

too soon, the child

leaves her own behind

at a storefront.

Tempting fate once

too often,

she imagines floating

high above rooftops

and rickety fire escapes.

She crashes so hard,

the earth’s axis tilts,

imperceptible but real.

Like her life.

(end)

David Henson

(Image provided by DWB)

The Picture on the Phone Pole by Christopher J Ananias

The streets of Marion were one way, even the alleys. If I went past the address, it would be a hassle. My GPS led me with its robotic commands like I was its mindless servant. That’s about the way I felt driving the Medicaid Taxi van, old No. 4, that smelled like a dirty laundry hamper. The so-called clients, “The Riders,” gave me a hard time if I showed up late for their free ride.

“They’re a bunch of deadbeats, Cal.” I said on our daily bullshit call.

Cal, who was always ranting about them, suddenly said, like a big company man, “Hey, don’t talk about our riders like that.” He was a fanatical Trumper too, hounding me to vote for the orange man. I almost did, thinking Trump was for Christian values, what a crock. Now I’m wondering about Biden and his senility.

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Why Are We On This Little Rock by Jordan Eve Morral

My thoughts aren’t original or groundbreaking. I know that. But maybe I’m here to remind you to think more deeply about the mundane stuff. Or that which we consider to be mundane. Like sleep. Isn’t it crazy that, for eight hours a day, everyday, humans enter into a state that (basically) makes them dead to the world? Eight ritual hours of nonexistence. Or television consumption. Eyes glued to a screen, watching other people live their lives but doing nothing themselves. And the various needs of the body that a person must obey, or else. If they don’t, the result could be death. No exaggeration. Hunger and dehydration–and a million other things–are real, people. Or the mere fact that humans live in houses and drive cars and hold fancy jobs and arrange the arugula and chicken on their sandwich to look pretty. Is there no such thing as a feral person anymore? Why has everything become so structured? That can’t be human nature, can it? And now most of a person’s life is stored on the internet for the world and all eternity to see. It must seem hypocritical of me, typing this from the comfort of my heated home, but I can’t change how things are, how the world functions in this day and age. The biggest difference my lonely, little self can make is challenging the masses’ way of thinking. Probably nothing noticeable will take place, but maybe, just maybe, people will begin valuing themselves for different reasons. They won’t see their worth in the lofty education they have received or all the connections they have made. They’ll find their meaning in the fact that they exist in a wide world with a consciousness so vast, a person’s whole life could be spent watching a river flow and thinking of all the beauty that has come before. It seems so surreal to think of all that has happened and will happen on this one tiny rock floating through space. We are so tiny, the universe so vast. The most we should expect of ourselves is equal appreciation of divine and earthly pleasures. We aren’t made to follow rules or conform to norms that should exist in the first place. We are made to simply be.

Jordan Eve Morral

Saragun Verse: It’s Like Fentanyl for Lazarus

Plan A

i

I used to be of the night

Never ate, drunk at dawn

Gods be damned, laughter so bright

Not knowing only slaves write songs

ii

Ahab’s lovely light landed on me

On summer staircases, tenement eaves

Below winter stars in wrong skies crossing

Greedy time knew nothing of me

iii

The devil clock chimed one morn’ at three

The deathnight spoke the mind of the Boar

‘Stupid girl, the master marked the cards before you were born,

Innocence is over, come now, find an oar.’

iv

No more nights of putting the wrong key in the lock

Nor philosophies over blasphemy and cigarettes

Nor scorning those who have children as a form or revenge

A strange method of payback for having been born

v

Then comes nothing, and nothing echoing more

‘T is nothing that makes only more

Of its stern self perpetual, redundant, sane

The ugly thing that happens when time remembers your name

Plan B

Re-read Plan A over a good snort of Methadone

Then snarl snarl at the dying of the light

Give your deepest weakness the finger and rise like Lazarus

People were made because the beasts won’t laugh at us

Jane Day (A Minologue) by Geraint Jonathan

Asked whether since last Friday she had heard voices she said yes a myriad. Asked whether when she heard said voices she was able to converse with them she replied yes always. Asked if the voices had faces she answered yes sometimes. Asked if said faces had forms discernible to her bodily eyes she replied yes sometimes. Asked what appearance they had she said words failed her or she failed them. Asked if she’d care to elaborate she said no not really. Asked if she knew what day it was she replied Wednesday. Asked whether she believed she suffered from a mental disorder she replied no she quite enjoyed it. Asked if she thought such levity appropriate in a matter so grave she declined to answer and merely smiled in a manner best described as ‘enigmatic’. Asked if she always did as her voices commanded she said her voices did not command. Asked whether when they spoke to her she grew frightened she said no never. Asked whether she understood the reason for her being here she again declined to answer but this time did not smile neither enigmatically nor in any way discernible to bodily eyes.

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