“For when words cease to cling close to things, kingdoms fall, empires wane and diminish.” – Ezra Pound
This week The Drifter offers a twenty-three-line poem because that’s what occurred – or arrived. In the unlikely event that anyone out there wants more “Drifter” today, I advise perusing this pome (not a typo) a multitude of times. This is not an article from The New York Daily Bullshit with a tag on it saying, “2 min read.” Reading this piece very, very, very, very, very, very, very slowly (aloud, or inside) is the recommended method – a form of medicine. I here predict (and if I’m wrong, I won’t know it, or care) that this one will be around for a while.
In the title, “Beauty” is a name, as in the old French legend, “Beauty and the Beast.”
This piece contains the past and the present, and has eyes on the future, in a writing where hundreds of things are deliberately hidden within every line.
And: age, does it not sneak up on us like a thief in the night?
With sincerity,
The Drifter
April 30, 2026 AD, 11:33 AM
The Heaven of Beauty
When I thought of your long red silver hair
and how many years it’s been that I haven’t seen it
blowing in the wind,
I was surprised, and almost shocked,
and I couldn’t believe that it was almost May again.
May,
month of dying
purple lilac petals in Berwyn,
another chance, a thawing of the heart, a re-resolution,
despite all.
May,
a sinking of the heart, a re-realization,
a too-real realization, and a knowing, that nothing,
“So you may say, / Greek flower; Greek ecstasy / reclaims forever /
one who died / following intricate song’s / lost measure.” – H.D.
Today’s discussion of medical issues is from a layman’s point of view since I am a Doctor of Philosophy and not a medical doctor. But the medical facts have been garnered and gathered from folks who are medical doctors – in person, not just through reading. So this column offers the best of both worlds: the medical facts filtered through a philosophical perspective, with a touch of Edgar Allan Poe and Franz Kafka, except that THIS IS REALITY.
…
The “Mad” Woman
You walk back into your tiny apartment after another trip around the block. The second you enter your one main room, you realize that something is amiss. Someone has been in here again during your 30-minute absence. Not only have they been in here again, they have rearranged some of your items. The difference in placement is very subtle. A hair brush you thought had been over here is now over there. Your coffee cup has been moved three inches away from the place you left it. And the television remote control device is now sitting on the opposite end of the end table from the one you left it upon when you left your apartment thirty minutes ago. Because the people, or beings, who enter your apartment and rearrange your stuff when you are gone are very subtle, very secretive, and very sly. You do not know why they are targeting you and rearranging your stuff; but “they” have been doing this for years. You slowly move around the apartment putting everything back in its right place. Then you notice that the dart board on your wall has also been rearranged. It has been moved exactly three inches to the left. You suddenly realize that the dart board is not a dart board: it is an eye. It is a GIGANTIC EYE through which THEY are watching you. THEY also follow you around on the streets sometimes. You have been incarcerated more than once for accosting these spies on the street. You approach them unannounced and unawares, demanding to know why they are following you, whose orders they are following, and why they don’t feel guilty about being spies. The authorities sometimes show up when you take these interrogation tactics too far. Sometimes that’s when the straight jackets come out and the incarceration thing happens again. You are aware that all of this seems “crazy” to them. But you are being followed, tracked, and surveilled within your apartment. Not just the dartboard but also the bathroom mirror is an EYE watching you. Watching you and reporting your activities to THEM. That’s why sometimes you don’t move for hours. You just sit there alone in your chair in your apartment utterly unmoving, not even daring to get up and go to the bathroom. Some day you will figure out who is doing all of this, why they are doing it, and what the universal ramifications are. You’re pretty sure that most of the spies are human. Others are definitely demons who look like humans. A few are humans you’ve been long familiar with, like your sneaky and wily landlord. That landlord of yours who always acts so friendly on the surface then turns around when you’re not looking and reports all of your activities to the authorities. The ultimate authorities are not human. They are not God, either. Rather they are some kind of currently unknown (to humans) creatures who live on a Planet called the North Star that is not in our galaxy and not even in our universe. One day you will know the reason for all of this, and it will elevate you. In the meantime, you can’t get a job because your life is constantly taken up with dealing with them, fleeing from them, thinking about them, analyzing them, dreaming about them, hiding under the covers from them in the tiny bedroom. (Under the covers is the only place they can’t see you, although they can still sometimes say things to you, like, “You stupid fucking bitch” over and over again.) Maybe some of them are friendly though (you are hoping this is true). Maybe everyone and everything in the world is not your enemy. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe! If you weren’t on medication, things would really start to get bad. You remember that you haven’t taken your medication in a few days, not since the last time you saw your therapist. You go to the medicine cabinet. To retrieve your medication. It should come as no surprise that your medication has disappeared because THEY have stolen it. Later you will locate the medication bottles in a different area of your apartment and realize that the jerks who are following you around and messing with you have moved your medication again. You dump all the many multicolored pills all over the floor and slowly and methodically begin to count them again, over and over and over again…counting the pills in this way also keeps the voices in your head quiet as night comes on, at least for the most part…
…
Welcome to the wonderful world of full-blown schizophrenia. The low moods and crazy highs of bipolar disorder look like a cake walk compared to this. Bipolar disorder is an episodic disorder where the patient is rarely, if ever, psychotic, i.e. totally out of touch with reality. There are a few medications that work really well in helping to control the occasional, extreme moods of bipolar disorder along with all of its daily intensities, mini-nervous-breakdowns, hilariously dangerous outbreaks, and sometimes-constant hyper-irritability. There are no medications that are great, or even very, very good, at controlling schizophrenia, although some med’s can help control the delusions and hallucinations a little. There is not much chance that any of this will change, at least not in the next couple of centuries…
…
The Native Americans, like the ancient Greeks, believed that “crazy” people were in touch with the gods in a special way that made them special people. They weren’t just sad, pointless cases with no reason, no goals, no ambitions, no purpose. Instead, their unusual condition was seen as a thing that was bringing messages to the rest of us. Not clear messages, ambiguous messages. But messages nevertheless. In the modern, secular, capitalistic, warlike, atheistic (or fundamentalist religionist), consumerist, commercialized, monetized, advertised, atomized, and alienated world, your value is the price tag on your head. Special people are not special, they are worthless, pointless junk to be discarded if possible. The medical professionals who do more than anyone else to try and help these people also often do more than anyone else to stigmatize, traumatize, and stereotype these people. There are literally millions of severely mentally ill people in the USA alone, and that doesn’t count the rest of the world. It’s a known fact that schizophrenics in the USA and UK, for instance, usually hear voices that are harshly criticizing them; while schizophrenics in places like Africa or India usually report (instead) hearing the voice of God.
These people really are messengers. It’s us who are not listening.
The next time you see someone standing on the street corner yelling at and kicking a telephone pole as if it were alive, or staring into the sky with a terrified look on their face as if an angry Martian were gazing down at them and scolding them, see if you can get inside their head before you pass on.
The Long Black Veil; or, The Hereafter in the Now By Dale Williams Barrigar
(images by Dale, the header is a poster in Leila’s office)
Every single word of this little monologue with a huge topic, a topic as big as it could possibly be, far, far bigger than anything current science or technology (AI included) can come up with, is deliberately chosen, and purposely placed exactly in the exact right place (whether awkward or not) where it magically happens to go (showing the unity of all things). When I say bigger than anything, AI included, I mean it:
I would rather rest in air (be cremated and flung to the winds over waters) but if I had to rest in earth I could do it here, as long as it’s like a Nathaniel Hawthorne story with all his beautiful women become one favored woman in the end, the platonic ideal of the human in snatches; or the song “Long Black Veil,” penned by Danny Dill and Marijohn Wilkin, as sung by Lefty Frizzell, in Nashville, in 1959.
Dale Williams Barrigar
And for a look at a similar idea…
To Be To Not to Be by Leila Allison
To Be or Not to Be is the most famous literary line in the English language. A six word statement; thirteen letters; four words (two repeats); three of the words contain two letters, one has three.
A lot can be accomplished by expressing the same thought in slightly different ways. I recall a country song from decades back that asked (I paraphrase): Should I kill myself or go bowling? That is the same question, but it contains an added touch of absurdity, which, I think, might have made the Bard smile.
The evil act called War can be viewed as a variation of the question. If you are the Leader of a nation who has declared war, you have made that choice for many people, friends and enemies. (That part doesn’t matter: the voices of the dead all scream the same.) It used to be that Leaders had the decency to “stand the hazard of the die” like Richard III, but you do not see a lot of that anymore. Anyway, in the end, War is simply organized murder and lacks much in the way of irony.
When Shakespeare wrote Hamlet there was something between 500 to 600 million people in the world. The population is close to nine billion today. And let’s not forget the 25 to 30 billion whose lives began, lived and ended since 1600. That’s a lot of To Be or Not to Be. Nature, as in the provider of our lives and maximum lifespans, of course, looks at it as To Be to Not to Be. Still thirteen letters, same word sizes, but the change of one letter that reduces the separate word count to three has much meaning, yet removes any question and, like War, it lacks much in irony. And in the case of one William Shakespeare, Nature’s version reads 23.04.64 to 23.04.16. (Even though it has a touch of symmetry, here, minus the centuries, we see where the simplicity of numbers fails to completely convey the depth of Will’s “Ago.”)
In the 335 words following the opening quotation, little, if any, irony, has been added to the concept. But today I think I’d like to thank the Ghost of William Shakespeare for giving me a lot to consider.
Martin Luther was a man who had one of his most profound religious revelations of his entire life while in the middle of a painful bowel movement. And he found this fact, in retrospect, to be so extraordinary, and so hilarious, that he never hesitated to tell this little tale to almost anyone who would listen when the mood struck him; and he especially enjoyed telling the tale in mixed company. He especially told the tale after putting a bunch of ale into himself. He was a man who enjoyed copious quantities of beer like most in his day. His sense of humor was so ribald, wild and infectious that he sometimes kept the folks around him in stitches for an entire evening. Then again, back then there was no television. And yet, we can still see that Martin Luther’s powers of humor were extraordinary and subversive. Just like Lenny Bruce.
Back then, messing around with THE LAW, which meant the Catholic Church, was not just something that could get you excommunicated, or even just exiled from the community. Dante, when he was banished from his hometown, was told: if we ever see your face around here again, mister, we will jump you and burn you alive publicly at the stake. It was a good enough reason for Dante to never see Florence, which he deeply loved, again. Back then, messing around with the law, i.e. The Church, meant that you might have your arms and legs cut off while you still lived. Then for good measure they would take your intestines out of your body and show them to you in case you were wondering what they looked like. And only then would they chop your head off and place it on a pike so they could put it on the corner to warn other ne’er-do-wells such as yourself. Martin Luther faced down the Catholic Church and condemned them in fiery and public terms for being a corrupt institution that cared nothing for anything at all except money, money, money. The way to win your eternal forgiveness back then was to make a little donation to the Catholic Church, who would then contact God on your behalf and make sure you were okay now with The Big Guy. They had forgotten what their great hero, Jesus, said about a rich man, heaven, a camel, and the eye of a needle. Luther spent an awful lot of time in hiding, and he escaped torture and execution because his wily nature and the truth of his position won out in the end.
In 2018 or ’19, Elina, Mary Ellen, and I saw Bob Dylan live on the campus of the University of Illinois Chicago at the small stadium there which was right across from the building where I had my office at the school for fifteen years. We were in the third row and the only thing we ever actually saw of Dylan himself was his wild and messy hair bobbing around above his electric piano, because of where we were in the crowd, because of how his piano was set up to block him, and because he hid behind his instrument the entire time with his head mostly bent down low and never once directly addressed the crowd, at all, except in song.
When he began to sing his song “Lenny Bruce,” from his 1981 Christian album Shot of Love, a sudden hush went over the entire audience, and it was obvious that more than just me in the crowd knew that this was a special and unusual moment. “Lenny Bruce” is one of Dylan’s least-known, truly great songs. The surprise performance he gave of it that night was almost heavenly, or at least as heavenly as it gets on this side of the Great Divide. Anyone who thinks Bob Dylan can’t sing was not there that evening, or is mentally sleeping.
“They said that he was sick / ’cause he didn’t play by the rules / He just showed the wise men of his day / to be nothing more than fools / They stamped him, and they labeled him / like they do with pants and shirts / He fought a war on a battlefield / where every victory hurts / Lenny Bruce was bad / He was the brother you never had.”
If forced or requested to select my favorite character in all of Shakespeare other than wild and wily Shakespeare himself, it would probably have to be the Dark Lady (or at least today it would definitely be the Dark Lady).
She is Good Will’s Mary Magdalene.
Anyone who’s ever loved a brilliant, promiscuous, raven-haired Spanish woman with darkly olive-colored skin and a shady reputation (to say the very least) will understand the attraction.
Her musical and poetic and intellectual abilities, her independent spirit and the fact that she inspired all this (all these deathless sonnets by the Western world’s greatest writer other than those who wrote the Bible) are her greatest calling cards.
“I do believe her, though I know she lies,” is one of my all-time favorite lines of poetry.
There have been myriads of scattered interpretations about the shades of meaning contained in this line.
And I know just what it means.
It’s about, among other things, Shakespeare’s voyeuristic obsessions and jealousies; and mine.
“It is difficult / to get the news from poems / yet men die miserably every day / for lack / of what is found there.”
– William Carlos Williams
“Look at / what passes for the new. / You will not find it there but in /
despised poems.” – William Carlos Williams
The above lines appear so simple that any literate child could have written them in her or his off moments.
At the same time, it took me twenty years of periodically re-reading and returning to these lines before I was able to understand them in their deeper levels, or in what Ralph Ellison called “the higher frequencies.”
I always knew there was something there, but just what it was always seemed to elude me.
It was this mystery, this enigma, this most simple yet deepest of riddles, which kept me returning to these lines, as with so many other great lines of poetry.
When you know what it is but also know you don’t really know what it is (and Socrates said the most important thing to know is what you don’t know), the mind-heart-body-spirit must engage with the work in a way that is beyond mere mental exercise, but also is mental exercise of the highest kind.
By the word “high,” I mean that it makes you feel high.
The word “kind” in another guise is another thing poetry is, even when it’s savagely satirical.
The honest and plain truth is that poetry says what nothing else can say, whether that something else be politics, science, philosophy, or even religion, which is why poetry is a religion to many.
It is a religion to an uncountable, indefinable, and scattered multitude, now and always.
It is what made us human (“in the beginning was the Word”) and it will be the last thing to go when and if we ever become no longer human.
There is nothing to believe; but somehow poetry makes you believe it anyway.
Key Notation: A novel like MOBY DICK or JANE EYRE or a Nathaniel Hawthorne or Carson McCullers short story are also, very much so, “poetry.” Wallace Stevens said that we should go around collecting poetry from the epiphanic moments in our lives and put those moments into words only afterwards; and so on one level, there is no greater argument for the holiness of poetry in and of itself than this.
The Drifter is phoning it in this weekend, or at least shooting from the hip, because the kids (the twins) have pneumonia. And he himself feels like he might be coming down with pneumonia. Or it might be the effects of a lifelong insomnia problem. I remember wandering around exploring our little house in the Detroit suburb of Madison Heights alone in the middle of the night before my brother was born. I was four when he was born. I remember, like it was yesterday, the day they brought him home from the hospital. Like it was yesterday with a large gray veil thrown over it, that is. Sometimes I wonder what are all the things I don’t remember. I know what I remember. What I don’t know is what I forgot. Meanwhile, what I forgot doesn’t mean it hasn’t affected me. It might have been a traumatic thing that has affected my whole life more deeply than anything else that I do remember. I also know that memory has a way of casting a beautiful sheen over some things they could not possibly have had to that full of an extent while they were happening. This hectic week has also reminded me that you need a zen-like control of the mind in order to do any good writing at all, except maybe fragments you can save for later.
Regarding the pneumonia, the effort of providing (or trying to provide) constant emotional support while also talking everyone down and also talking them up all the time (“it will be okay, you can get through this,” etcetera), while simultaneously dealing with crowded doctors’ waiting rooms, harried medical staff, looming insurance debacles, half-assed pharmacy escapades, endless traffic jams, social anxiety disorder caused by bipolar disorder, and near-migraine headaches can be a thing that will lead to nervous breakdowns, just like it has done in the past. My well-medicated brain that has a dead patch in it from having a stroke can handle a lot but it too has its breaking point. The first sign is usually emotional, followed by physical, collapse. Lest it sound like I’m complaining I admit that all of the above is a journey too and these are also some of the most meaningful events in life. Watching your children suffer and panic and cough up blood up close teaches you something, even if you don’t know what it is at the time, and even when they are otherwise healthy kids who you know are probably gonna be okay.
The kids’ mother, my ex-wife, teaches sixth grade math fulltime at a public elementary school. Nearly half of her seventy or so students either have no father at all (that they know of or know) or have a father who’s in prison. It doesn’t make for the most controlled eleven- and twelve-year-old male behavior imaginable. The job has too many students and too many hoops to jump through almost constantly but teaching jobs around here aren’t easy to come by even under the horrible conditions. She takes over with the twins after work when they’re sick and I get to fly away like a bird, but until she’s available, the job of double caregiver is all mine. What I get out of it is a great relationship with great kids. The danger is a bunch of small nervous breakdowns that can lead to a big one. But I get to look myself straight in the eye in the mirror and say, honestly, that I’ve never abandoned them. The sense of freedom this causes through a lack of guilty feelings from doing otherwise is one more freedom in a world where we all want freedom. Freedom comes from what isn’t there as much as from what is. It’s hard to concentrate on anything else when the bombs and the bullets are flying in your direction.
I had started on a column this week before the pneumonia thing began and I here append a 287-word fragment of the rough draft as evidence. I believe it is worthy of perusing or I wouldn’t append it:
This is for all unsung spiritual warriors everywhere who know whereof I speak.
Those who do not know whereof I speak are of course free to read this anyway but it’s unlikely you’d get the same kick out of it as those in the know.
Whether this happened to you yesterday or forty years ago matters not one tiny jot.
What does matter is that the reader of this understand the concept of life as a war and certain individual chapters of it as battles and battlefields.
Understanding this concept does not mean that the symbol and metaphor indicated is real, if it were real it wouldn’t be symbol and metaphor, even though symbols and metaphors are real.
Real war is a horrendous ordeal for all involved, except the ones who get off on it, and there are many who get off on it, probably far more than is generally acknowledged.
The concept of life as a spiritual war means that the strains and stresses of living it on a daily basis can take the same kind of toll that a real war can take in the long run.
On any given day living my normal life in Chicagoland all these things might happen, sometimes within the same hour.
I might be almost run over or slammed into by an errant, enraged driver who then yells at and curses me for almost getting in his or her way even though I’m following the rules of the road and she or he is not.
I might be accosted on the street by a beggar in such a horrific, bedraggled and tragic condition of decomposition and desperation that my eyes, and my heart, can barely stand it.
“Yes: writing has done much harm to writers.” – Oscar Wilde
“I had a girl / Now she’s gone / She left town / Town burned down / Nothing left / But the sound / Of the front door closing / forever.” – Warren Zevon
…And then sitting on the porch The Drifter opined to the two who were there with him:
I was given some of the worst advice about writing I’ve ever received in some of the “best” writing programs in the entire Midwest. The American Midwest, roughly defined, has over three hundred degree-granting writing programs currently, both undergraduate and graduate, in Spring 2026. It was similar back then. The Midwestern Gothic is a fuel for many muses, both half-hearted and fiery. One in five Americans are defined as Midwesterners which means we are a looked-down-upon minority even though we’ve produced many of the greatest American writers, like Twain and Hemingway, Hart Crane, Saul Bellow, Robert Bly, James Wright, and Lorine Niedecker. And messy “Honest” Abe Lincoln, the pipe-smoking mercury pill addict who spent most of his time on the road with his horse because he found his manic-depressive wife intolerable on a daily basis.
I received the worst advice I’ve ever received from the most famous novelist I ever worked with. He tried to steal both my women at different times and at the same time at two different parties; drank all my liquor while saluting me; destroyed my manuscripts by spilling wine on them and burning them with cigarettes (“accidentally”); and said he was helping me. He told me not to take five pages describing a character walking across the street. He said not to describe eyes. And he provided a whole mishmash of other rotten advice that ruined an entire novel of mine. I didn’t know any better at the time. I never knew how long it would take me to really find my own voice, either. This writer, still living and producing at 72 right now, had created two minor New York Times best-sellers (one novel and one nonfiction book) back then and worked as a script writer in Hollywood for a few years. He was well-connected to such well-known literary writers as Jim Harrison, Harry Crews, Barry Lopez, Larry Brown, Barry Hannah, William Gay, and Thomas McGuane, to name a few: or so he claimed. He never came close to scoring on either one of my aristocratic underclass Ladies, as unfamous and oft’-intoxicated as I happened to be, which made me half-different from him. Both of these drama queen heartbreakers had their own side activities so they couldn’t blame me, thought I, though they both tried to anyway. This kind of histrionic performance took up a lot of time. Drinking and smoking beloved cigarettes while driving my little car was one of my favorite activities along with the music I played and I was constantly looking out for the police in a relaxed way, whether it was fighting and loud music at night, the purchase of not-exactly-legal substances or drinking and driving, which I always did in a condition of chilled-out, laser-like focus which could not be dented by alcohol consumption. My occupation was Professional Pizza Delivery Person. I left my shifts with fistfuls of cash. They couldn’t track you by cell phone back then. Of the twenty or so drivers at the store, twenty or so were males. About half were either Hindu or Muslim. There were many long discussions about religion around the ovens with cigarettes being shared and sometimes marijuana. One of the job’s key features was the potential to get either jumped, mugged, or robbed or all three at once so I was always looking out for the thieves and gangbangers as well as the police. It was another era of course and I do not recommend it but it worked for me at the time, “it” meaning the drinking and driving and running around. I didn’t go to the gym but I got tons of exercise, often too much. I had bottles hidden everywhere I lived and didn’t live, in couch cushions, in basements, in backs of cupboards, in desk drawers, behind bookshelves, under the bed, in the bushes, behind the garage, and beneath the car seats, to name a few. Keeping up my own supply of both liquor and cigarettes often took constant struggle and effort but scoring these items produced the looked-for joy every single time, cigarettes included. Got my mojo back, friend! Every cigarette I ever lit whether it was accompanied by strong, hot, black coffee, hard liquor, or air, was a love affair. It was a time when motels were cheap, diner food was good, and cheap, books, cigarettes, and alcohol were affordable and there was more than one good novelist being regularly published.
What was good about the writing programs, for me, was an unparalleled camaraderie that touched the heights of the beat writers in America and stayed there. Wichita, Kansas, and Chicago, Illinois, were lit on fire by us and we burned down both towns. And then, behind us, the towns burned down. And that developing alcoholism that would shape my life for good and ill. And all you beautiful women (enough said here) who broke my heart gradually and then suddenly. And great libraries. Somehow I never stopped reading, never. Hours daily before the bars and sometimes in the bars. And two or three days a week, all night and all day, reading. Falling asleep on the floor with one’s head in the book. And it was good again to see your friends after such self-educating seclusion. There were also trips to New York City. One time the plane almost went down. Another time we arrived in a different car than we left in, which would be a novella-length tale if all the important details were included. In NYC, I usually stayed with a friend in a cockroach-infested tenement across from Tompkins Square Park that had a guy who looked like Lou Reed sitting on the stoop 24/7, bottle in hand and sunglasses hiding the truth even at night. And I was young. Not too young, not very young, but young enough that I look back there now with longing. Not a torturous longing, more like a sweet longing that sometimes turns painful. Aging is for the birds and birds are poets. Our complicated, interconnected, lonely, over-evolved, over-commercialized, over-advertised, alienating, and fractured society where nothing of importance appears and nothing stays for a day or an hour happens to produce late-blooming artistic geniuses in out-of-the-way places. Walt Whitman, following Ralph Waldo Emerson, wanted the American writer to spread and not be only an exclusive East Coast thing. They have done so.
My talent in fiction-writing was cramming a character’s head with thoughts and their heart with feelings and eschewing the formal outward trappings of a mechanical plot device even though there was plenty of drama going on beneath the surface, or so I believed. Writing in no genre, in other words, straight from life, just like I took the Jack Daniel’s straight as well (or the lines of cocaine). I learned it first and foremost from James Joyce, who took it from Laurence Sterne and Francois Rabelais, among others, who I later also learned from, and Bob Dylan was also a massive and messy (in the best senses) influence on my style, of both life and writing. I was advised not to do it, then told not to do it, then asked not to do it by a couple of big-name folks in New York City, both an agent and a publisher. But I couldn’t not do it. “Write the other way I cannot,” said Melville, meaning he couldn’t write the formulaic, crap, restricted, hack way. Not will not. Cannot. And then will not, too. It may stem from an overactive critical imagination, an imagination which is only increased by drug use, if you target and restrict that use. There is a difference between deliberate, targeted usage and the sloppiness and self-pity of abuse. And a million gradations to be explored in writing at another time. When I was a teenager Pete Townshend was often my idea of what a writer was, along with Dostoevsky and always Shakespeare (still) as well as King David of Bible fame (his psalms, and his psychological slaying of the monster Goliath). Right now (at this moment and often at other moments) I believe the dead writer I resemble most is TED BERRIGAN, especially Ted in his fourteen-line poem masterpiece, “Whitman in Black.”
I’m old enough now to know that the slick party-going folks who run the book industry desire formulaic, commercialized, seen-before, dressed-up-as-if-new, recognizable products – cheap products. Products they can sell. You usually can’t sell what no one has ever seen before but it’s the only way to produce something original, too. The Irish weekly paper that commissioned James Joyce (for a pittance) to write the series of stories for what later became Dubliners stopped publishing his stories because they received too many complaints from all the faint-hearted readers. Good Christians, so-called. It took him ten years to find a publisher after the book was finished. It is a candidate for the greatest short story collection in the English language of all time, or it just is that. Other candidates include In Our Time by Ernest Hemingway and A Good Man is Hard to Find by Flannery O’Connor but of these three for me Dubliners rules though the other two are so close. One of the bars we used to drink in in Chicago was called THE JAMES JOYCE. We rode the train and burned it down. Another one was called: NINE MUSES. Also THE FIELD HOUSE, BIG SKY and ALBERT’S PLACE. And dozens, literally, of other bars. More books than bars but many, many bars. While in NYC, we drank at the WHITE HORSE TAVERN because of Dylan Thomas.
I also wrote dozens of short stories while in the writing programs. Every single one was a piece of juvenilia. I banged them out on the computer while smoking and drinking either liquor or coffee or both and at least half of them were over fifty pages long. I’d show up late at the writing workshop smelling like smoke and liquor and with fifteen copies of a fifty-page story ready to hand everybody with a grin on my face. And sometimes I’m so quiet they think I’m autistic. It’s artistic, Mister. And Ma’am.
No one wanted to read it. I didn’t care. Which isn’t quite true. But isn’t untrue, either.
When I was 46 years old I became a poet. The story of how that happened cannot be told. Yet. It is only of interest, I suppose, if you’re interested in the writing life as participant or observer. All you who are already studying your own process. Jesus said, Only those can understand who already know. The rest are the proverbial swine you’re not supposed to throw your pearls in front of, harsh as it sounds. There are thousands upon thousands of well-known and/or well-paid writers (which is very often not the same thing at all) who don’t know, and by “don’t know” I mean don’t know what’s important. Or care. Some day The Drifter will write a further analysis of why their crap is crap. Mostly, half the time, I was just happy to have survived, I think…
(TO BE CONTINUED. This sort of thing could go on for years. The official title for this specific series is THE DRIFTER CONFESSIONS.)
WRITING ADVICE: Make it a lifelong (right up until the end) goal instead of a short-term payout and it will never leave you. Reading and writing are two sides of the same golden literary coin, far more precious than literal jewels. According to Harold Bloom, the literary is the personal and the Personal IS Literary. Even for those who don’t know it. It is manifestly NOT an elitist thing: while also being only for the few with the strongest hearts.
“The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.” – James Joyce
“Shut your eyes and see.” – James Joyce
(Note: We conclude another fine week by our Editor DWB. And for the time being he will be appearing in months to come with full weeks. The offer is open to many of our friends who have published previously with us. So, something to consider–Leila)
This un-mundane but minuscule screed possesses a very specific target audience. It is aimed directly at anyone who has ever lived, is now living, or will ever live who has even the tiniest bit of interest in the Irish author James Joyce, or in creative writing itself as purely an art form.
The greater your interest in HIM (and he is his work) or the greater your interest in creative writing as art, the greater your interest in this missive will be. There is much so-called “creative writing” that is much closer to formulaic hack writing than it is to what we (I) mean when we say “art.” This kind of commercialized-hack-writing-as-creative-writing tends to win things like the Pulitzer Prize, the Booker Prize and even the Nobel Prize – to prove this all you need to do is look backward at the list/s of writers and works which have historically won these so-called prizes; Joyce himself, the greatest fiction writer in English of the twentieth century (by far), never won any major prizes and was never even nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature. Joyce is the greatest fiction writer in English of the twentieth century, which bears repeating. More than this, forced to make a list of the top half-dozen writers of the English language so far in any genre, that list would be: William Shakespeare; Geoffrey Chaucer; John Milton; William Wordsworth; James Joyce; and Jonathan Swift; in that order. Maybe Emily Dickinson, Emily Bronte, Edgar Allan Poe (just ask them in France), Walt Whitman, John Keats, John Donne or William Blake could replace someone in this list. (All such lists are really just a speculative game, of course, except for the first four, which are really a historical fact.)
Spiritual events are the biggest events in our lives. In many ways, somehow unrequited romantic love (including but not limited to the death of the loved one as in Poe) is an unbeatable spiritual event – and by that I especially mean small cap’s romantic love when it is propelled by capital R-and-L Romantic Love, i.e. the kind of love that was also preached and practiced by the British Romantics such as Blake, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Keats, Byron, and the Shelleys, all of whom had their profound influences on James Joyce (he once dubbed himself a modern-day synthesis of Daniel Defoe of Robinson Crusoe fame, and William Blake).
Joyce has been and is one of the biggest spiritual events in my own life so far on a personal level. As such, this screed that is also a missive is also a memoir of a little over 1,300 words, which is around the average length of one of Paul’s letters or many of Hemingway’s best stories.
I started reading Joyce when I was around fifteen years old in the American Midwest. In many ways, I was finished reading Joyce by the time I was around twenty or so, even though I’ve continued to reread him to a greater or lesser extent in every year of the last thirty-nine years. So I absorbed, and even memorized, much of Joyce still during the time/s when my youth made me very, very impressionable.
All young people who have the gift or the penchant for reading or who have a questing soul at all should read and reread some of James Joyce when they are young if they are lucky, specifically the first four stories in his collection Dubliners, which blow The Catcher in the Rye out of the water but are in the same vein and should be read first or beside it, along with Hemingway’s Nick Adams stories. If these four Joyce pieces accidentally missed you when you were “young,” but you are still young inside, go to these stories now and your haunting youth will be magically returned to you in all its best, and worst, aspects. The complete realism of these brief yet all-encompassing tales is comforting even as their idealism inspires, or makes the breath quicken.
The rest of this writing will present in brief yet pungent and cogent form what are my own personal favorite things in James Joyce as of right now. His work is endless to meditation so some items shall be, I am sure, accidentally omitted but what is presented here can also be seen as an outline of his most important work from the heart and soul of one loving reader’s perspective.
…
DUBLINERS.
The first four stories: “The Sisters,” “An Encounter,” “Araby,” and “Eveline.”
“The Boarding House” from the middle of the collection and “The Dead” from the end, and especially the end of “The Dead,” and especially the very last paragraph of this long story or short novella.
“The Dead”: the dramatic, life-altering moments between the MC and his wife in their hotel room around Christmastime will never leave you. The last paragraph of “The Dead” is, hands down, one of the greatest paragraphs ever written in the English language, a fact that has been acknowledged by many long before me and will continue to be acknowledged by many long after “yours truly” has departed this mortal sphere (praise God may it not be for a while, thy will be done). I personally have read this paragraph not hundreds but thousands of times. It is like a sad song I replay over and over when alone in the car, but better.
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A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN.
The title of this book alone has had a massive impact on my entire life at every level I can possibly imagine, an impact so vast it feels beyond Jungian in its depth, oldness, oddness, and neverendingness.
The sea girl on the seaside like a sea bird and Stephen’s limerence-like fascination with the girl, the bird, and the sea. The beautiful longing of it all.
The experimental and experiential opening of this novel which actually captures all of infancy, babyhood, and toddlerhood in less than one page from the kid’s perspective.
The friend with friend notations and conversations that end the book.
The phrase “silence, exile, and cunning” which became one of my own personal credos when I was a teenager and remains so until today, and will be tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow after that, too. Among other things, the rebellious spirit of the original rock and roll is contained within this phrase. One of the greatest influences on Bob Dylan ever is and was James Joyce, by Dylan’s own admission.
There is SO MUCH in these literal and metaphorical four words when put together like this that you can literally build an entire life on and around it.
It is more than an impenetrable fence but it is also an impenetrable fence, the only kind that can allow for true growth of the spirit and the personality, the only real possession we can ever possess here on Planet Earth.
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ULYSSES.
The title itself, alone, along with all it implies.
The “friends” episode in the sea tower at the beginning of the book.
Leopold Bloom’s eternal peregrinations.
Stephen and Bloom drunk together in the whorehouse and elsewhere, wandering around.
MOLLY BLOOM, especially her end (“Yes”) in more ways than one.
Marilyn Monroe wanted to make a movie where she played Molly.
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FINNEGANS WAKE.
The title itself.
Finnegans – plural. Wake – verb.
Resurrection, reincarnation, and/or all of the above.
The Irish drinking song where the title comes from: a drunk guy in Chicago falls off a ladder, dies, then springs to life again at his own funeral, leaping out of his own casket and SMILING at all his friends and enemies.
Her name: Anna Livia Plurabelle. And the rivers of life.
His name: H.C.E. (Here Comes Everybody.)
Shem the Penman.
The alpha and the omega: the beginning and the end.
This is, above all, NOT some random collection of quotations randomly tossed together by some enigmatic and bored outsider from the American Midwest who’s (once again) too high on microdoses of magic mushrooms, edible marijuana, and too much green tea and Gabapentin. Instead, this is a very, very, very, very, very, very, very carefully curated, selected, shaped, arranged, and FORMED collage of quotations that can stand as its own separate work of art on many many many many levels, just as the collages of Picasso and Braque could do the same. I do not limit nor count my borrowings, said Montaigne, I weigh them.
As such, this tissue of words can be utilized primarily in one of two ways, or (preferably) in both-at-once ways. If you, the Reader, can think of other ways to use these (this), please feel free to freely do so at whatever levels or in whatever ways your mind or nerves can handle.
A: It can be used as an exceedingly useful summary of the entire life’s work of the Irish author James Joyce (and James Joyce himself WAS his work at a level that perhaps surpasses (almost) anyone else).
B: It can be used as a piece of twenty-first century wisdom writing (like an advice column for seekers) all in its own right.
James Joyce is one of the funniest writers who ever lived which is to say he’s one of the greatest comic writers who ever inhabited Planet Earth, as the brilliant genius Anthony Burgess never tired of pointing out to anyone who’d listen to him (and it was usually far fewer than you might imagine, even after a certain novel of his was made into an exceedingly famous motion picture which had almost nothing to do with the original novel at all).
Joyce also possessed (as do so many true comedians) incredible wisdom about life.
Read on 2 find out.
(FYI: this is also a companion piece to my forthcoming written work “Silence, Exile, and Cunning: a Credo, a Screed, a Missive, a Memoir.” I call it a “written work” because it doesn’t have a genre except perhaps for the ones enumerated in the title. It shall come forth tomorrow.)
“Shut your eyes and see.”
“Let my country die for me.”
“Love loves to love love.”
“First we feel. Then we fall.”
“As I walked along in the sun I remembered old Cotter’s words and tried to remember what had happened afterwards in the dream.”
“We walked along the North Strand Road till we came to the Vitriol Works and then turned to the right along the Wharf Road.”
“Meeting her a third time by accident he found courage to make an appointment. She came.”
“The sad quiet greyblue glow of the dying day came through the window and the open door, covering over and allaying quietly a sudden instinct of remorse in Stephen’s heart.”
“Think you’re escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.”
“The object of the artist is the creation of the beautiful. What the beautiful is is another question.”
“The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit.”
“It is as painful perhaps to be awakened from a vision as to be born.”
“You can still die when the sun is shining.”
“I will not serve that in which I no longer believe and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can.”
“The whole face is of an ascetic, inspired, whole souled, wonderfully passionate man. It is Christ, as the Man of Sorrows, his raiment red as of them that tread in the winepress. It is literally Behold the Man.”
“Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.”
Saragun Springs 