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What Would Abraham Lincoln Do Now?

September 27, 2025

In “the year of our Lord” 1909, Count Leo Tolstoy was one of the most famous humans on Planet Earth, by far.

He was a person who had survived into the twentieth century in a very vital way from another era, a man who had been born into the age of serfdom (or Russian slavery) in his own land and seen it fall (around the same time American slavery fell), a man who was as well-known then as Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr., would later become (and a man who had already corresponded with Gandhi, famously), a man who was known for educating, and attempting to free, the serfs on his own land before the national reforms came along, a man who had started a globally-known peace movement called Tolstoyism based on the real and true teachings of Jesus Christ taken directly from the Gospels, and a man who, if the world had listened to him back then, could have solved ALL of the world’s current problems today via the solutions he was offering at the time, a man so well-known and so accomplished that he deserved not just the Noble Prize in Literature (see the list at the end of this essay) but also the Nobel Peace Prize, like very few others in history (except, perhaps, figures like Bob Dylan, John Lennon, Bob Marley and Martin Luther King, Jr., all of whom could have been awarded the Literature prize as well as the Peace prize based on their work in both fields).

1909 was also the centenary of Abraham Lincoln’s birth. A reporter came to ask Tolstoy to write something about Lincoln for this event. He found the great, long-bearded, long-haired, physically frail and elderly man and writer too sick to rise from bed or pick up a pen for long, but somehow still able to think and talk just as clearly as ever.

Tolstoy surprised the world, just a little bit, by what he told the reporter that day, when he called Lincoln the greatest national hero and national leader of all time, a man who would, in a couple of centuries, make all other national heroes and leaders look like nothing compared to him. “Of all the great national heroes and statesmen of history Lincoln is the only real giant,” Tolstoy said.

Tolstoy listed “depth of feeling, greatness of character, and a certain moral power” as the qualities that made Lincoln so much greater than the other heroes and leaders. Tolstoy said, “His genius is still too strong and too powerful for the common understanding, just as the sun is too hot when its light beams directly on us.” He said that Lincoln’s “supremacy expresses itself altogether in his peculiar moral power and in the greatness of his character.” He said that Lincoln, “wanted to be great through his smallness.”

Tolstoy said of Lincoln: “He was what Beethoven was in music, Dante in poetry, Raphael in painting, and Christ in the philosophy of life. He aspired to be divine – and he was.”

***

America is on the verge of its next civil war, or is already in the beginnings of it.

Because this new civil war won’t be a “Civil War” with capital letters like the last one was.

It will be (for the most part) a much more insidious and secret affair, many or most of the battles playing themselves out within the battlefield of the human heart.

There won’t be huge lines of gray and blue soldiers blowing each other to smithereens across a river until kingdom come like the first time.

But there will be, and already is, great hatred involved, great contempt for one’s fellow human beings, great nastiness and moral decrepitude even among the youth of America, a great bitterness and a great belittling of each other, utter small-mindedness and small-heartedness on both sides as we stare each other down and hate each other’s guts and hope someone else will come along and do our sporadic killing for us, and then applaud when they do so while we execute them in return, smiling bitterly all the while and cursing the world in our hearts while taking responsibility for none of it.

So it’s worth asking, at this great and terrible point in American history, “What would Abraham Lincoln do if he were here now?”

After a lifetime (on and off) of studying Lincoln, both his life and his writings, from his home ground in Illinois, I believe I know the answer to this question. And I can break it down into three key points, very briefly.

Read on to find out.

***

ONE: He would rise above the fray. He would not take sides. He would try to look at the truthful aspects of both opposite points of view and leave all the lies and bad “information” lying in the dust. He would see it from everyone’s level, no matter who they are.

HE WOULDN’T BECOME PETTY WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH. AND HE WOULDN’T START THROWING STONES AT HIS NEIGHBOR, NO MATTER WHO THAT NEIGHBOR IS, OR WHERE THEY CAME FROM.

NO EXCEPTIONS.

TWO: He would resist the totalitarian impulse, which crushes genuine humanity, at all levels, but he would resist it within himself first.

He wouldn’t let himself be seduced by the urge to crush, or even think less of, those who are weaker than or “different” from himself.

As Kahlil Gibran said in The Prophet, “And if it is a despot you would dethrone, see first that his throne erected within you is destroyed.”

THREE:

HE WOULD LOVE. The tragic irony here is that anyone who can understand this third point is already doing it.

And the final tragic irony of this column is that Lincoln is no longer a hero for either side.

The Drifter on Tolstoy’s short works: Tolstoy is the author of two short stories and one small autobiographical nonfiction book that deserve to be studied by anyone on the Planet who wants to turn themselves into a better person during these horrible times.

“The Death of Ivan Ilyich” is about a man who discovers he’s held the wrong materialistic, selfish, Scrooge-like values his entire life, right before he dies. Ironically, it’s his illness and his approaching end that make him see the light and saves him (just in time).

“Master and Man” is one of the most life-affirming stories about self-sacrifice ever written. No spoiler alerts. But the horse in this story is more alive than the humans in almost everyone else’s fiction.

“A Confession” is an autobiographical nonfiction tale that influenced Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr., as they developed and extended nonviolent resistance, just as Tolstoy himself had been influenced by Percy Bysshe Shelley and Henry David Thoreau before him.

Tolstoy suffered from Depression, the modern variety. This book shows you what it’s like if you’ve never been in it; and how to get out of it if you have.

Agnostic Preview by Michael Bloor

(first published in Potato Soup Journal, July 5th, 2021)

(Ed Note–We hope you have enjoyed Michael’s return this week. We always do ourselves!–LA)

At first when I died, it was rather predictable. Beginning with that out-of-body-experience thing: I’m hovering, up near the ceiling, in the local Accident & Emergency Department, looking down on a rather battered and splattered me, plus an attendant nurse and junior doctor. Then it’s the dark-tunnel thingy, with a wee pin-prick of light that’s starting to get bigger and brighter, and bigger and brighter.

And then…. Pop! I’m in a largish, empty room with white walls. Now it starts to get different…

The white door opens and Leonard Cohen comes in. He consults his clipboard: ‘Hello, erm, Malcolm Barnstable? Welcome to the First Circle; I’m your guide. My name’s Cohen, Leonard Cohen. According to my records here, you were run over by a herd of dairy cows. We don’t get many of those.’

It took me a second or two to gather my wits. ‘Got you now: it’s Dante’s First Circle of Hell, for all those nice pagans. And you’re the stand-in guide for Virgil, as a fellow poet?’

‘That’s pretty much it, Malcolm. Call me Leonard, why dontcha? Virgil’s still knocking about. But, with the numbers coming in these days, he’s needing a helping hand. So Percy and I now do the English speakers.

‘Percy?’

‘Yeah, Percy Shelley. “My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,” and all that.’

‘I see. Er, you’re not wearing laurel leaves on your brow?’

‘Nope, no leaves. They were offered, but I prefer the fedora – it’s kind of a trademark. But Percy wears the old laurel leaves. He said it was either that or some seaweed. You’re stuck with me because you’re down in the records as “agnostic.” If you’d been signed up as “atheist,” you’d ‘ve got Percy. You want your tour just now? Or would you like a spot of nectar first?’

I settled for the nectar, which I could definitely develop a taste for. As tactfully as I could, I asked about Leonard’s co-habitation of the Agnostic First Circle.

‘Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s true that, strictly speaking, I’m a Jewish Zen Buddhist, but that’s a pretty small constituency. And you might say that agnosticism is a central tenet of Zen Buddhist practice. Though if you had the inclination, I could nit-pick that one with you. After all, you’ll find you have plenty of time here for long discussions of abstract…’

And then: Woah! Oooff! Ouch! Suddenly, I’m back in Accident & Emergency.

Biography:

Michael Bloor lives in Dunblane, Scotland, where he has discovered the exhilaration of short fiction, with more than a hundred pieces published in Literally Stories, Everyday Fiction, The Copperfield Review, Litro Online, Firewords, The Drabble, The Cabinet of Heed, Moonpark Review and elsewhere (see https://michaelbloor.com).

Twenty-First Century Mr Chips by Michael Bloor

(first published in The Fiction Pool, September 9th 2017)

‘Hello. You have eight messages. First message, received Friday, May 20th at 6.30 pm…’

‘You dirty nonce! Messin’ with kids’ lives. I know where you live, you shit! I’ll be round to see you wi’ a pair o’ garden shears. Guess what for?’

‘Second message, received Friday, May 20th at 7.10 pm…’

‘Hello love. Where are you? Don’t tell me you’ve forgot again. I think those sleeping pills are making you a bit dopey. The meat’s spoiling. Lucky we both like it well done! Hoping to see you soon. I mean VERY soon. Lots of love, Lucy.’

‘Third message, received Friday, May 20th at 8.45 pm…’

‘Andy, it’s me. Your meal’s in the bin. Again. We can’t go on like this. I mean it.’

‘Fourth message, received Friday, May 20th at 11.52 pm…’

‘Still not pickin’ up, you nonce? We wuz discussin’ you in the pub. Someone suggested some petrol through the letter box. But I say: why spoil a perfeckly good ‘ouse? So we’ll still be bringin’ the garden shears. Thought you’d like to know.’

‘Fifth message, received Saturday, May 21st at 9.30 am…’

‘Andy, it’s Jonathan here. So sorry to call you on the weekend. But I wanted you to know that we had a school governors’ meeting last night. You’ll understand that I had to make the governors aware of the allegations against you. They agreed with me that we have only one possible course of action. I’m afraid that, in view of the seriousness of the allegations, you’ll be on gardening leave for the present. So please don’t show up on Monday. If you need to get in touch, it’s best that you do it through the Foundation’s solicitors. Sorry about that, but I’m sure you understand that the school’s good name has to be my first concern.’

‘Sixth message, received Saturday, May 21st at 7.20 pm…’

‘Well, I did think you’d at least have the decency to ring and apologise. I think, under the circumstances, we should cancel that holiday in France: you’ll probably forget to come to the airport.’

‘Seventh message, received Sunday, May 22nd at 2.15 pm…’

‘Andy, it’s Lucy. Are you alright? Came past and saw the curtains drawn. When you get this, please call back to let me know you’re OK.’

‘Eighth message, received Monday, May 23rd at 10.00 am…’

‘Mr Robertson, this is Detective Constable Brailsford here. I’m ringing on behalf of Detective Chief Inspector Williams. We wanted you to know that, following investigation, we believe the allegations that have been made against you are unfounded. The child who made the allegations has withdrawn them – they appear to have been malicious in intent. Off the record, I’d like to say that both my boys were previously pupils at the school and hold you in high regard. I’m sorry for the trouble that has been caused, but you’ll understand that, in the present climate, every such allegation or complaint has to be thoroughly investigated. If you’d like any further information, please feel free to ring me back.

‘You have no further messages.’

Biography:

Michael Bloor lives in Dunblane, Scotland, where he has discovered the exhilaration of short fiction, with more than a hundred pieces published in Literally Stories, Everyday Fiction, The Copperfield Review, Litro Online, Firewords, The Drabble, The Cabinet of Heed, Moonpark Review and elsewhere (see https://michaelbloor.com).

Chess Nuts by Michael Bloor

(first published in Potato Soup Journal, February 2nd 2022)

In the town chess club, the final of the annual Earl’s Cup competition was about to start, the finalists being Willie Anderson, the holder, and a new member, Archie Drummond. The club was a friendly, welcoming place, but there was a surprising coolness between Willie and the new member. Although Archie Drummond was indeed a new club member, he wasn’t new to the town, having been born and raised here before going away to spend his working life (profitably) in Hong Kong. Apparently, as young men, Willie and Archie had fallen out over a girl: there had been a memorable stramash in the Gents toilet at the old Mecca Ballroom. Forty-odd years on, one gathered that the ballroom bout was regarded by both parties as inconclusive.

Willie was setting the electric clock, with each player to make thirty moves in an hour, plus twenty minutes each to finish. Archie was studying the inscription on the solid silver cup, the oldest chess trophy in Scotland, presented to the club in memory of the Earl’s eldest son, Captain Albert Abercrombie-Smith, club champion 1876 & 1877, slain by Zulus at the Battle of Isandlwana, 1878. Silently, Willie showed the set clock to Archie for his inspection and was rewarded with a grunt of agreement. The traditional hand-shake at the beginning of the game was perfunctory in the extreme.

Other games were being played in the clubroom that night. But, as they ended one-by-one, the players clustered around the black-and-white battlefield where Willie and Archie were joined in silent struggle. The pawns clashed and fell, the knights leapt forward and fell back, the bishops obliquely threatened, the castles took up their defensive positions, and the overbearing queens stalked the board. The clock ran on, the moves became more urgent and the competition entered the endgame: the kings emerged from behind their defensive ramparts and began a dancing duel. A couple of stray pieces fell here and there, but to no clear advantage. With less than a minute left on his clock, Archie managed to force his last remaining pawn to the back rank, converting it to a queen. Unsportingly, Willie played on, hoping to avoid mate long enough for Archie to lose on time. Archie mated him with just three seconds left on his clock. The audience, hushed until that point, now erupted with exclamations, congratulations and rival theories of how alternative endings could have been contrived. In the hubbub, the customary concluding handshake was somehow omitted.

After a short delay, the club president presented Archie with the cup and a photo was taken for the website. Willie had left the room, but his prostate often required sudden temporary absences. The night was concluded and we all streamed out of the club. Archie Drummond bore off his cup in his BMW, like a Russian Prince in a horse-drawn midnight sleigh. Willie Anderson watched the tail-lights dwindle down the Kirkgate: ‘Weel, weel, he’s carried awa’ the cup, but I carried awa’ Dorothy, bless her.’

Biography:

Michael Bloor lives in Dunblane, Scotland, where he has discovered the exhilaration of short fiction, with more than a hundred pieces published in Literally Stories, Everyday Fiction, The Copperfield Review, Litro Online, Firewords, The Drabble, The Cabinet of Heed, Moonpark Review and elsewhere (see https://michaelbloor.com).

Commuting in Warsaw by Michael Bloor

(first published in The Flash Fiction Press, May 5th 2017)

Jenny Birkett was sitting in the bar with five fellow psychiatrists at an academic conference. A quiet middle-aged woman with quiet clothes and a gentle manner, it wasn’t unusual for her to take little part in professional chitchat. The discussion was about some remarks that the opening conference speaker had made in his plenary address. He had referred to a famous paper that the great Swiss psychotherapist, Carl Jung, delivered to the annual meeting of the British Medical Association in the summer of 1914, ‘The Importance of the Unconscious in Psychopathology’. At the time, Jung secretly feared that he himself was suffering from schizophrenia. Two days after he delivered his paper, the First World War broke out. In the middle of that collective European madness, Jung’s recovery was slow and painful: he later interpreted his initial disturbance as a precognition of the European slaughter.

The conference speaker had suggested that personal experience of mental illness could be valuable to psychiatrists in caring for their patients. The suggestion had sharply divided the group in the bar. Old Danny McCafferty, who knew Jenny better than most, noticed not just her quietness, but a clouded, troubled expression. Hesitantly, he asked her if she had an opinion. Jenny spoke so gently that they had to strain to hear her above the hubbub of the bar: ‘I don’t say that personal experience of psychiatric illness is going to be helpful to us in diagnosis or treatment. But there was an occasion when I felt sure that I was going mad and I’ll never forget the sheer anguish that I felt then. It’s got to be valuable for us to understand – to know from our own experience – the awfulness that our patients are living through. I hope it’s helped me to bring more compassion to my patients.’

There was a pause. Jenny reached for, and swigged, her dry white wine. She ran her finger over the wet ring her glass had left on the table. ‘I suppose, after a declaration like that, I owe it to you all to tell you what happened…

‘Nearly twenty years ago, I went to Poland on an EU exchange scheme. I learnt the language at my mother’s knee: she had fled Poland during the war. I spent six months in an academic psychiatric department in Warsaw and a Polish colleague, Darek, came to my unit in Edinburgh. I had his flat in Warsaw and he stayed in my cottage in Roslyn. You probably know that the ancient centre of Warsaw was painstakingly recreated after the destruction of the war. But most of the city’s population don’t stay in the chocolate-box city centre: they live in the countless high-rise flats in the suburbs. Like everyone else, I used to travel in and out to work on the bus, down long, long avenues of these post-war workers’ flats. A dreary journey.

‘One autumn evening of murk and rain, I was absorbed in an article I was reading and almost missed my stop. I scurried into the downstairs lobby of the flats and into the battered lift. Darek’s flat was on the eighth floor. There was no light on the landing and it was always a titanic struggle to locate and operate Darek’s battered door-lock. So it was a relief when, finally, the lock yielded. But once inside the flat, it always used to feel homely. The living room used to be lined with books in Polish and English – literature and philosophy, as well as medicine. Darek was evidently a polymath whose learning put me to shame.

‘But that night, when I switched on the light, I got a stupefying shock. The books and the book shelves were gone. So were the warm Afghan rugs and the rich red curtains.

‘I dropped my briefcase and almost collapsed myself. I sat down abruptly on a battered dining room chair (never previously seen) and, not daring to lift my eyes, stared at the unfamiliar scuffed lino at my feet. The lino was patterned with entwined pink roses on a green background: the thorns on the roses seemed unnaturally large. I struggled against the panic, tried to control my rasping breathing, and sought desperately for some rational explanation of the changes. Sought and failed: how could somebody (a relative of Dareks? a housing official?? the security police???) have entered the flat and, in a few short hours, completely refurnished it with this old tatt – this scuffed lino? In truth, I knew that nothing could explain the transformation of the flat. There had to be something wrong with my perception: I, a psychiatrist, was delusional. My eyes filled with tears; I have never known such pain.

‘I thought back to patients I had known, trying and failing to recall similar cases. And then I was mistrusting my recall, as I had already mistrusted my perceptions. Inexpressible wretchedness. My breathing was now quite out of control, my heart was banging like a gong. I felt faint and I got up to open the living room window, to breathe some cold air. As I stood at the window, struggling with the catch, I glanced out to the evening street below…

‘It was a different street.

‘And then, in a flash, I knew. This was a different street: it wasn’t Darek’s street and this was not Darek’s flat. Unknowingly, I had got off the bus at the wrong stop. Unknowingly, I had run through the rain into the wrong block of flats. Unknowingly, I had contrived with Darek’s key to open the shoddy lock to the wrong flat.

‘Such relief. But my understanding of my patients was changed utterly.’

Biography:

Michael Bloor lives in Dunblane, Scotland, where he has discovered the exhilaration of short fiction, with more than a hundred pieces published in Literally Stories, Everyday Fiction, The Copperfield Review, Litro Online, Firewords, The Drabble, The Cabinet of Heed, Moonpark Review and elsewhere (see https://michaelbloor.com).

The Visionary Librarian by Michael Bloor

(first published in The Copperfield Review, February 6th 2018)

January 1st, 1781. I do not fully know my reasons for setting down this record of past events. I have studied the works my great contemporary, David Hume, and I therefore no longer cleave to the kirk and to the faith of my fathers. Yet the purging of what others call my soul, penitence, and the striving for a moral life, they all remain a habit with me. Furthermore, I have a strong presentiment that I shall not live out this winter. These days of bitter chill may be my last opportunity to reveal my hidden crime and to state my case, not to the Maker in whom I no longer believe, but perhaps to my better self – the self who always seeks but never finds, who can carefully shape a principle but cannot always live by it. If others should find this manuscript after I am dust, may they read it and know that even a puir body can try to do his duty.

I have taught the school in the parish of Inverallan for thirty seven years and I trust I have discharged that duty honourably, though no Inverallan weaver’s or ploughman’s bairn has joined the ranks of David Hume, Adam Smith, William Robertson, and William Fergusson – the Philosopher-Kings of Edinburgh and all Europe. However, the Inverallan dominie has a further duty yet – a duty greater, I believe, than that of schooling the Inverallan bairns – I refer to my duty as Keeper of the Books. A hundred years since, the Inverallan laird bequeathed his library of two hundred volumes (together with a respectable sum for their upkeep) as a free library to all men and women who wished to borrow them. When the old minister, Mr MacKellar, informed me of my appointment and showed me the library that was to be in my charge, I could conceive of no duty under the sun that could be more pleasurable. I was not to ken then the rue that would come to me.

In the early years of my charge, Inverallan and the surrounding parishes were in a sorry state. The laird had declared for Prince Charles Stuart, and when the laird is for a cause then the tenants have little choice but to follow. Two score of men had marched off with the laird, my elder brother Alexander among them. Only three lads limped home. At first, we had good news of Alexander. It seemed that he had distinguished himself in the field at Preston Pans and, when the laird fell ill and was left behind in Edinburgh, Alexander took charge of the laird’s men on the march into England. On the retreat from Derby, Alexander was detailed to be part of the garrison the Prince left in Carlisle. After that we heard nothing. Cumberland’s army marched through our parish on their way to Culloden: they fired the laird’s castle and drove off all our cattle and our remaining horses.

It was in February 1752, a time of want and bitter cold, that I had more news. In the late evening there was a tapping at my window, but the pane was so frosted over that I could not see out. I took up my lantern and opened the door. A tall figure, muffled in a cloak stood before me. There was a bright moon, but his face was shadowed by his hat.

‘They tell me our parents are both dead.’ It was Alexander. I dropped the lantern; we embraced.

I fed him some porridge and spirits and studied him as he ate and drank. To my surprise, he seemed hardly changed, for all his seven-year absence. Only his rich, travel-stained clothes spoke of a difference. He told me bits and pieces of his story: it seemed that in the ’45 several men had died at his hands; more recently, he been in France in the service of the Stuarts, but Scots were no longer welcome there; he had used the last of his money to pay the ‘freetraders’ (as the smugglers are commonly called) to land him near Kirkcaldy; he had travelled to Inverallan only by night, there being a price on his head. But rather than talk over-much about himself, he had the charming ability to draw out the talk of others:

‘Well, Jamie lad, you’re quite the scholar now. I see on the table that “Lock’s Works” is your present study eh?’

‘Philosophy is only one of the subjects to be found in The Free Library, Sandy. There are books on geography, history, theology, and mathematics, translations of Ovid and Virgil, maps, collections of sermons…’

‘Yon is a strange conceit, is it not? to make a pile of your books, some of them doubtless worth a year of our faither’s labour. And then offer them up to any passin’ ploughboy that has a fancy for them?’

‘Each ploughboy, as you put it, must sign for each volume that he borrows. But Sandy, I don’t think you’ve grasped the wonder of the thing. They come here from their fermtouns and weavers’ cottages, limbs stiff after a hard day’s labour, walking miles through the sleet and the glaur. They carry back with them Shakespeare’s Sonnets to read by the ill light of their cruisie lamps. And that is their taste of Rhenish wine and honey cakes, their bed of goose down, their transport to Samarkand. With a book in his chapped hand, every ploughboy is an equal of the Duke of Argyll and the Marquis of Breadalbane. This free library is a growing light in a dark world, Sandy.’

‘Pish, Jamie. Your ploughboy is a duke’s equal (mention not that damned Argyll to me) in the alehouse, wi’ a tankard in his hand and a maid on his knee. What need of books, when you’ve left the schoolroom?’

In my eagerness to convince Alexander, I fetched the Borrower’s Register to show him. As he turned the pages, he murmured: ‘Well, well, Andra Comrie borrows Abercrombie’s Sermons. I thought him dead on the field at Falkirk.’ He turned to me: ‘Jamie, I have need to borrow a pile of your books… Indefinitely.’ I stared. ‘There’s a bounty on my head. I know of a vessel at the Broomielaw in Glasgow that will carry me to a new life in the Carolinas. For a price. Your books are as good as ready currency.’

My elder brother faded before my eyes and a simulacrum took his place. The brawling spirited lad I had idolised and run after was vanished like snow off a dyke. Now before me was the callous gallant who had left his parents to fret and go to their graves thinking him dead on a battlefield, who had fawned and intrigued for place and favour in foreign courts, and who had only returned briefly to his native Scotland to profit from, and ruin, his brother’s position of trust. Worst yet, he would pillage the free library – the library that is, and should remain, a hope and consolation in a wretched world.

Every schoolroom is a stage for the dominie to strut and strike a pose. It was now my turn to dissemble and fall in with Alexander’s plans. We made up his bed, despite his faint protestations (‘I’m an old campaigner, Jamie – the heather has oft times been bed enough for me’) and fixed that he would stay hidden with me the next day, departing in the dusk with his booty of sixteen books (more than he needed for his fare, I’ll warrant).

That next day, I watched him take the less-frequented moorland road. I marvelled at how he hardly bent his back, shouldering the coarse linen sack of books. When he was past the castle ruins, I grabbed my hat and walked over to the manse, to beg the loan of the minister’s mare (I was still a communicant in those days and a member of the kirk session). I then took the military road to Stirling. I had slow progress over the half-frozen snow and dawn was breaking when I reached Stirling Brig. Mares’ tails of mist were twisting over the River Forth, which Alexander had to cross to gain the Glasgow road. I had the Brig sentry call up the Sheriff’s Officer, an old pupil of mine, to whom (in confidence) I told my tale.

After resting the horse, I turned for home and only heard the end of the story a week later. Samuel Haldane, the Sheriff’s Officer, came by to return the linen bag of books. I sat him down at the fireside and poured him a glass. He told me that Alexander, as he’d surmised, had been too canny to try to cross the brig: Haldane had put a concealed watch on the upstream ford and his men had taken Alexander there by surprise. However, as the party were marching back to Stirling, Alexander had slashed at one man with a concealed dirk, broken away and ran for the river. Whether the pursuers’ musketry had been successful, or the cold of the river had overcome Alexander, Haldane was unable to say, but Alexander’s body was seen to be borne away by the current, down to the sea.

Haldane could see that his news had pierced me. He rose and laid a hand on my shoulder: ‘Mr Robertson, your brother Alexander was well-kent in all this countryside from Stirling to Crieff, even before The Rebellion. He was too wild a man for these New Times.’

Though Haldane’s words were some comfort to me, mine is nevertheless the sin of Cain. But I did not commit fratricide merely to repossess a bag of books. Rather, I would claim that I sinned for a great principle, the principle of free knowledge. I have served that principle (not always constantly, but as best I can) for thirty seven years. And, if I could still pray, I would pray that the light of Inverallan library would shine out across all Scotland and the whole wide world.

Biography:

Michael Bloor lives in Dunblane, Scotland, where he has discovered the exhilaration of short fiction, with more than a hundred pieces published in Literally Stories, Everyday Fiction, The Copperfield Review, Litro Online, Firewords, The Drabble, The Cabinet of Heed, Moonpark Review and elsewhere (see https://michaelbloor.com).

Fermain Bay by Michael Bloor

(first published in The Flash Fiction Press, January 5th, 2017)

(Ed note–We are ecstatic to welcome Mick Bloor back for another week; come back through this Saturday and we believe that you will like him as much!–LA)

A routine visit to the town library with my daughter. My pedagogic overtures rejected, I drift over to a display of new books. A shock: the photo on the dust-jacket of a book about the Channel Islands. It’s Fermain Bay, Guernsey. For years, I carried in my wallet just such a photo, taken from among the headland pines on a day of luminous light, looking down into the narrow sandy bay. On the dust-jacket, I can just make out tiny, scattered deck-chairs, once my summer-long responsibility.

The things you forget. The great Martello Tower, built to dominate the beach and deter Napoleon – forgotten. A mere stone obstacle to be skirted on journeys between my deck-chair store and Ginny’s beach café. An historic monument rubbed out and Ginny’s brown eyes and deft movements given Conservation Area status. The things you remember: our first kiss, when I couldn’t stop my knees trembling; how the smell of the pines gradually gave way to the smell of the sea on morning walks to work; the taste of fresh Guernsey milk. And there’s the bad stuff too: the café break-in when all the fags were stolen and the owner blamed me; my night at the police station – a brief episode, but a lasting after-taste of how it is to be the bewildered outsider, the stranger deemed suddenly to be the enemy. That summer was my passage into adulthood, backlit by the ‘vision splendid’ of childhood, but treading step-by-step into Man’s Estate.

Thirty-odd years have passed since that library visit, just as twenty-odd years had stretched between my Guernsey days and my discovery of the dust-jacket. A strange exercise, to sit and recall the time when the memory of Fermain Bay engulfed me like an incoming tide – the memory of a memory.

Biography:

Michael Bloor lives in Dunblane, Scotland, where he has discovered the exhilaration of short fiction, with more than a hundred pieces published in Literally Stories, Everyday Fiction, The Copperfield Review, Litro Online, Firewords, The Drabble, The Cabinet of Heed, Moonpark Review and elsewhere (see https://michaelbloor.com).

Jim Morrison and London by The Drifter

(Images provided by The Drifter. Mighty Boo is considering you)

I first heard of the English poet, visual artist and freedom fighter, William Blake, friend of Thomas Paine, through James Douglas Morrison, but then again, there were many persons and things I first heard of through Jim Morrison that have had a lifelong influence on me, including the untamed German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche and the vanishing French poet Arthur Rimbaud.

The first full-length biography of Jim was No One Here Gets Out Alive, by Jerry Hopkins and Danny Sugerman. I devoured this book a year after it came out in 1980 when I was 14 years old and living with my family near the Mississippi River in Quincy, Illinois, which is both Mark Twain and Abraham Lincoln country for anyone who’s awake enough, which is not most of us, but is a few of us.

I was 14 in 1981 so the book had been out for around a year when I first read it. It shows how young I was to think that I believed the book had been out for a long time back then, even though now a year seems like a day to me. And it also seemed, back then, as if Morrison had been dead forever, even though at that point it was only around a decade. A decade seems almost like nothing now in the face of so many additional years later.

In The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, William Blake wrote, “If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite.” By this point, this must surely be one of the most famous quotations from English Literature of all time, a quotation that many and many more are familiar with in various guises and ways even though they have no idea what the original source of the quotation is.

A huge part of the fame of this quote has to do with Morrison’s band’s name, The Doors, but it also has to do with Aldous Huxley’s famous book The Doors of Perception, which is a long essay about hallucinogenic drug experiences (experiences which Huxley was to continue right up until the end, even taking the extraordinary step of consuming LSD on his deathbed). Morrison originally heard the Blake phrase doors of perception from Huxley’s popular book, but Jim later became intensely familiar with many of William Blake’s other works as well, as he was with that of Nietzsche, and Rimbaud, those two eternal rebels and voices of human freedom who originally inspired Jim Morrison more than any musicians ever did.

Because Jim was a poet from the start, and at the end of his life he’d grown so disgusted with the outward trappings of his manufactured musical fame that it literally sickened him, even though he also knew he’d won a kind of immortal glory through his writings and his work with The Doors who’d brought his writings to life.

William Blake’s 16-line poem “London,” first published by Blake himself with his own illustration in 1794, says that the streets and the river of the great city are “charter’d,” which means for sale and locked down in a place where everything is for sale, including the loyalties and sympathies of the human heart.

Blake talks about how there are “marks of weakness, marks of woe” in every London face he meets, and he talks about chimney-sweepers (little boys) crying and soldiers (little more than boys) sighing as their blood runs down the palace walls; and he throws out a sympathetic shout for the female prostitutes (many of them girls) who are everywhere in the city while also calling the institution of marriage, not a happily-ever-after, but a “hearse.” In short, this poem was and is about as radical as it’s possible to be, then and now.

This poem also contains another William Blake quotation almost as famous as “the doors of perception.”

In line 8 of the poem called “London,” Blake says: “The mind-forg’d manacles I hear.”

In five words, William Blake manages to capture and encapsulate the mental slavery Jim Morrison was waging holy (spiritual-only) war against in the 1960s, as well as the mental slavery that is coming to dominate our own day more and more with the rise of (or the return to) authoritarianism and corporate conformity all over the world.

“Mind-forg’d manacles” is a two-word phrase written in the 1790s by an Englishman who supported the American Revolution while also being a passionate abolitionist.

Blake also supported the rights of women. He taught his own wife how to read and write and worked with her as his artistic partner in an age when such things were exceedingly rare.

And he abhorred and spoke out about the destruction of nature by the industrial revolution in an age when almost no one understood what was really going on – except the poets, rebels and drifters.

A century and a half and more later, Jim Morrison became a receptor, and then a conduit, for the imaginative and rebellious worldview of William Blake as he did with Nietzsche and Rimbaud and the spirit of the Native Americans.

One thing the yin and yang means (in my interpretation of it) is that two completely opposite and seemingly antithetical things are always true at once in this world we inhabit.

In this case it means that everything has changed – and nothing has.

Signed, The Drifter…

As If She Really Were There by Dale Williams Barrigar

(The image of Happy Hounds provided by DWB and the hand of a Mystery Twin)

(Co-Ed note: The weeks vanish so quickly, but we can fill them with words as they pass as tithing baskets! Return tomorrow for the always fragrant, flagrant, virtuous, violet, hectic, heroic, melancholy, merciful, and more so and more so thoughts of our beloved The Drifter!–LA)

As If She Were Really There

(For the virgin queen, from a dream)

Fingers around the wheel of life,

I roll it as her long-nailed

fingers’ ghosts

handcuff my wrists

gentle and fair.

The True Way, or The Drug List by Dr. Dale Williams Barrigar

(Cool images provided by DWB)

(Co-Ed note–We once again proudly present another high quality and brilliant “fictional essay” by Co-Editor Dr. Dale Williams Barrigar. This is extra special because it makes its world debut, right about…now!–LA)

“Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” – Hemingway

DISCLAIMER: The advice in this essay isn’t for everyone.

It’s up to the Reader to decide whether you’re one of those this was meant for, directly, indirectly, or not at all.

Part One.

In private notes that were discovered and released after his death, the great psychologist Carl Jung pointed out that there are two ways of consuming drugs, i.e. (in this case) illegal substances, or alcohol (a hardcore drug if there ever was one).

The first way involves bombing out your mind, becoming numb, killing your spirit, getting wasted, forgetting about life, escaping your responsibilities as a human among humans and other living things, and so forth.

This is the mode that gets all the press in the modern US, even with (or especially with) two revered comedians such as Mr. Cheech and Mr. Chong.

But the second way, much less popular and much less talked about and much less believed in, too, is much different.

And the second way can be called the true way.

The second way is the way of the shaman, the way of the mystical monk or nun, the way of the spiritual seeker.

The second way was and is the way which can be symbolized by seven representative American writers (at their best, only at their best), none of whom died shockingly young from drugs or anything else, except Kerouac (at 47): William S. Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Ken Kesey, Charles Bukowski, Hunter S. Thompson, and Bob Dylan (among many other heroes).

The first way involves deadening yourself – putting yourself to sleep.

The second, much less popular way, involves a search for enlightenment, the seeking after an awakening, the belief in greater human possibilities of the imagination, the longing for unity, the knowledge that deliberately changing your consciousness (temporarily) (and being out on the edge) can lead to a change for the better in Consciousness – permanently; when done right (only when done right).

In this formulation, for example, and which I can very much attest to personally, the use of marijuana can make you feel two ways.

One: tuned out, drugged out, apathetic, tired and with the munchies.

Two: Awakened, heightened, more alive, more ambitious, more energized, more open, more adventurous, more bold, more spiritually attuned at every level, hungry for more life and not just mere food.

This essay is about pursuing the use of drugs for the second mode.

It should surprise none of us that in America, Land of the Vulgar, the first, bad way of using weed (and other substances) is the one that gets all the press.

After all, we’re also the ones who proudly elect the worst (or best) snake oil salesman in history to be our supreme leader.

But there is, as Carl Jung pointed out, another way, a way Jung secretly called (knowing it would be released later) “sacred pharmacology.”

A way that, despite its sacredness, or because of it, can very much get you in big trouble or even “ruin your career” (which is one massive reason why Jung never released his research on drug use while he lived; he saw what had happened to Freud and cocaine and had the same rational self-protective instincts of a Galileo, or anyone in their right mind).

Part Two.

In another essay, as a sequel to this one, I will list and briefly discuss the first time I ever tried every drug I’ve ever done and where I was when that happened and who I was with (if I was with anyone), starting with coffee and ending with magic mushrooms, sometimes known as psilocybin, which are being widely tested now by Western science for their medicinal properties. (They can also have properties that feel the very opposite of medicinal, depending on your mood, take it from humble yours truly, and still known today among the youth of America as “a bad trip.”) Warning: discussions of hard drugs like crack cocaine, cocaine, LSD and certain opioids (no needles) will be included in this future essay.

Needles will not be included because I’ve never used needles. I’ve never used needles because all my experiments have been deliberate, and even careful, if it’s possible to use something like LSD or crack cocaine in a careful way (and, at least partly, it is possible, say I).

I won’t talk about alcohol in this list, which is the drug I have the most lifelong experience/s with, by far. (This topic is and will be further covered in greater detail in other essays.)

I also won’t talk about (for the most part) prescription drugs like Depakote and other bipolar medications which have been a big part of my life since 2015, since they aren’t generally what are known as “recreational” drugs (although there can be some serious cross-over here with things like Gabapentin and benzodiazepines).

And the term recreational, for me, is a big part of the problem.

When I use drugs, it is never for recreation at all, just as I never take vacations.

Whenever I travel anywhere, even if it’s just down to the corner again, I think of it as a small journey that’s part of the long journey of life itself – not a vacation.

I’m 58 now (born in 1967, three months before the Summer of Love).

I’ve done so many drugs in my life that I’m sure I’ll be forgetting a few of them, despite the list I’ve made ahead of time by hand before I type it whenever that happens.

This essay doesn’t talk much about ADDICTION, either, which is a separate topic, and one of the possibilities when you play with fire.

But, again, it’s possible to play with fire in a careful way and it’s possible to play with fire in a reckless way that isn’t careful at all.

There is nothing in this world that isn’t dangerous, even traveling down to the corner, even taking a shower, even boiling water for tea (or especially all of the above).

You avoid the danger as much as you can but NEVER to the point where your life is paralyzed (or even well-nigh nonexistent) with fear.

Because we are given life by the Universe (for me it’s God) in order to live life and not living life (in a genuine and authentic way where you actually try, or Don’t Try, as Bukowski said, which amounts to the same thing) is the greatest sin of all.

Sometimes quality is more important than quantity, too.

What good is it if you live to be a hundred and ten and were one of the most boring people to ever walk the Planet, even (or especially) to yourself?

If you already have visionary or artistic tendencies (often but not always the same thing), taking drugs sometimes, in the right way, can enhance your visions, especially in the middle of this sickeningly over-civilized, overly-tame, overly-sheltered, overly-comfortable (for far too many of us) world we’ve created.

Drugs actually aren’t The Way but they can be a ticket to the way just like Dr. Hunter S. Thompson claimed they could be.

He was right about Nixon, he was right about the death of the American Dream, and he’s right about this, too.

Enhanced visions lead to spiritual expansions and augmented consciousnesses (plural) within yourself, and greater imagination, memory, and intelligence, too – not just the munchies.

And the dizziness of having your worldview turned upside down in an instant can be liberating, especially when it happens frequently.

The effect/s are cumulative, for the most part; and it’s a process, a road, a path, a way, not a destination: and getting stuck in a rut is to be avoided whenever you can.

Part Three.

I started attending Wheaton Central High School in Wheaton, Illinois, USA, almost exactly five months after John Belushi, the great comedian and actor, died.

It was Belushi’s high school and it sometimes seemed like his name and even his picture were everywhere in the halls.

And we were lost suburban teenagers of the Ronnie Raygun 1980s who looked to Belushi as a hero not because he was funny or because he died of a drug overdose (with needles) at the Christological age of 33, but because he was a rebellious spirit at his core.

As one of the Blues Brothers, at least half the time he wasn’t funny at all (very much on purpose), but he was never not a rebel.

It was as if we were trying to resurrect the rebel spirit of the 1960s without even knowing we were doing so, and experimentation with drugs and alcohol were a huge part of all that.

Living with a purpose (if undefined so far), driving hard until you were out on the edge (and then hopefully reining yourself in), and making an impression on all the conformist dolts crowding our world (no matter their age or status otherwise) were all the name of the game.

It takes a Houdini-like delicacy and balance, the strength and fortitude of Hercules, the wisdom of Athena, the fearlessness of Achilles and the alertness of Odysseus.

And we learned that if you try hard enough without trying you can turn yourself into none other than a Chosen One.