Conclusion: 

(10-26-2008)

A Revolution of the Mind: Chapter 2

(10-25-2008) – 4:22 P.M.

What an irony is boredom when we know we’re all doomed to die! Death sentences and we’re all dying to pass the time till we get our own shining moment in the chair. What time we waste and then say how fast the years have gone!  I can’t believe they died before I got a chance to know them!  I can’t believe how messy the kitchen is!  All so rushed but always wasting time. What an irony is boredom.

Such victims we are.  Such hard lives we have. All of us.
 

I am not sure that I remember how to do this.  Undertake one final flood of the mind before plunging into deep sleep.  You have to.  Why this intensity, this all the time worrying about something?  I think that all worries stem from a single worry and then branch outward from this one root—the foundation of all fear—the acknowledgement of death.   This is what is at the seat of our fall from innocence.  It is not our revolution as sexually active creatures, but moreover, our true realization that we—and everyone else we know—is going to die.

This time is one of change. I have become focused on the now.  The lesson for today is, be. If you focus on the future, you are not being.  If you focus on desire, materials, or “a tingling of the nerves,” you are not being.  If you become angry because of something that you have taught yourself to need but that you did not need when you were a child, you are not being.  Know yourself.  If you do not know yourself truly, then you will spend half of your time betraying the part of yourself that is really you.

 Anger is the impulse of a fool manifesting itself through emotion. Temperance is the mark of the wise.  

Not all battles are worth dying for.

That is all for now.

Previous to 1970, there had been a lack of literature dealing with the issue of divorce which could be read and understood by young adults.  There was literature available which spoke about the topic of divorce, but it was all in works that were far too sophisticated to be grasped by a young adult, and/or often portrayed issues that had nothing to do with what could be considered a ‘common’ divorce.  I have found several literary works whose treatment of divorce/separation can attest to these assertions. 

      Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary is a fine example of the aforesaid trends.  The risqué novel was published in 1856.  Charles Bovary is the main protagonist of the novel and finds many difficulties in his two marriages.  In his first marriage, his mother has him married off to an older woman named Heloise, and she dies very shortly afterwards.  Charles then meets and is married to Emma Bovary, the ‘Madame Bovary’ for whom the novel is named.  The novel explores the issue of infidelity in marriage as Emma has affairs with two different men over the next few years.  She does not love her husband, and she makes it evident that she often feels disappointment in him.  She later kills herself after getting herself deep into financial trouble.  After her death, Charles discovers the letters from the two men whom Emma had been seeing.  The book ends on a very tragic note, highlighting the sorrow of their failed marriage. The issue of marital infidelity runs rampant throughout the novel, but Berthe, the daughter of Emma and Charles, is scarcely even mentioned.  The perspective of the child and the effects of the divorce upon Berthe are almost nonexistent.  We realize that she will be cursed with a life of poverty after the death of her parents and as a result her mother’s enormous financial debts. Madame Bovary is a book for more mature audiences, and is likely a book that would cause a young adult to grow very frustrated in reading.  The prose is very sophisticated and would likely be too challenging for a younger reader.  Although the nature of their marriage is set in reality, the book is not written in a manner which could be easily read or understood by a younger audience, and it offers little in the way of exploration or explanation into the effects of the declining marriage upon the child, therefore, it is ineffective when considered as a work of Young Adult Literature.

      Similar trends to the ones found in Madame Bovary can be seen in Arthur Miller’s work, After the Fall.  The book was published in 1964, and is centered on a girl named Maggie.  Maggie and her mother were abandoned by her father. Maggie is very promiscuous and begins giving men sexual favors and allowing them to take advantage of her at a young age. She leads a very troubled life and makes a name for herself as a musician. A man named Quentin leaves his first wife to marry Maggie.  He desperately tries to save her throughout the course of their marriage, but despite all of his efforts, she ends up committing suicide.  Like Madame Bovary, the story ends in the suicide of the wife.  It also deals with a wife who is very estranged from her husband and a husband who tries tirelessly to be the man that his wife needs him to be, but eventually failing.  After the Fall deals only slightly with the issue of divorce, and it is treated from a distance.  Maggie’s father leaves her family early in her life, and the effects of that separation continue to affect Maggie’s life until her suicide.  This work does deal with the issue of divorce from the perspective of the child who is the victim of it, but I would argue that the graphic content of the novel makes it inappropriate for young adult readers.  The explicit sexuality in the text is far too obscene for a young audience.  So, while we see some of the effects that the divorce has upon Maggie (i.e.—her own difficulty marrying/having relationships, her sexual promiscuity with random men, potentially her own suicide) and her mother, and while a victim of divorce may potentially relate to the book very strongly and profoundly, the novel is a bit too sensual to be read by young adults. 

      In the two works that I have discussed thus far, the end result of all of the tragedies endured by the wives in these stories is common—suicide.  Kate Chopin’s novel, The Awakening, is no different.  The book was published in 1899. At the novel’s conclusion, the main protagonist, a woman named Edna, offers her body up to the water, drowning herself.  Like Emma Bovary, Edna strays from her husband Leonce and her children.  She moves out to live on her own and paint and spend time with a man named Robert in her leisure.  Edna’s friend Adele pleads with her, asking her to act wisely and to realize what she is doing to her family.  Later, Edna has a sexual affair with a man named Alcee Arobin.  Her husband, Leonce, tries to get her help and asks a doctor to see her.  He is constantly trying to reconnect with his wife, but she is no longer satisfied in the marriage, and each of his efforts end up proving to be futile.  Robert tries desperately to make the marriage work and to understand his wife’s alienation from their relationship and their family.  Edna’s own self-individualism and personal freedom ultimately end up proving to be more valuable to her than her marriage and even her own life. The Awakening deals extensively with the issue of divorce, but children are hardly even involved, and rarely even mentioned.  The language is a little less sophisticated than that of Madame Bovary, but still, it is a novel that I think would cause a lot of difficulty for a younger and more developmental reader.  Again, this is a text whose content is a little too mature to be considered as Young Adult Literature. 

      All of Kate Chopin’s literature tends to regard marriage in a similar fashion.  She seems to believe that the one essential quality of the marriage is that both members remain satisfied.  Chopin felt that “…a marriage should last… only as long as those in it are fulfilled by it.”  (Stein, 170) This can clearly be seen in The Awakening, as well as in Chopin’s first novel, At Fault, which was published in 1890.  In that novel, the main protagonist Therese slowly begins to understand that a marriage to another person can be a useless and destructive force if one is no longer happy with her marriage: “…it is what Theresa finally learns in this novel and is the lesson behind all of Chopin’s subsequent marriage fiction.” (Stein, 170)  Her texts all seem to feature a woman who possesses a desire to leave the world in some way.  Therese and Edna both have these kinds of urges.  Chopin’s books are useful in understanding a woman’s perspective on marriage, as well as in displaying her motivations for becoming estranged and/or separated from her husband, or to stay with him.  She is very effective in illustrating the psychological processes of women who feel disinterested and/or alienated from their marriage in some way.  However, these works are not works which a young adult could relate to, and they do very little in the way of incorporating the perspective of a child into the text. 

The topic of divorce is definitely being handled by authors before 1970, but it is not being treated or written about in a fashion that a young adult could easily relate to it and draw parallels between the text and their own life.  I feel that the settings as well as the diction in all of the texts I have already mentioned would make a younger reader grow disengaged and bored with the text.  Other texts of the time steer clear of the issue of divorce altogether and work to persuade the reader that perseverance and endurance in the marriage should always be regarded as an alternative to divorce.

      In 1871, William Dean Howells published a novel entitled Their Wedding Journey.  The book features an atypical wedding situation.  The newlyweds in this text are not young and passionate while looking out upon the verge of their new lives, but aged and temperate in their love for each other.  The two are wedded and then they embark on a trip.  The book tells the story of their everlasting bond and embraces the joy of marriage.  The relationship is not without its share of difficulties, but they work through their problems with love and understanding for their significant other.  This novel is an example of a text which avoids the issue of divorce completely, instead emphasizing that marriage is a bond that should never be broken by everyday problems, but something that should endure all trials.  This text could likely be read by a young adult, despite the disengagement with the text that would likely occur as a result of the text’s antiquity, but it does not aid them in any way, shape, or form in the effort to understand and confront issues they might be dealing with in a family divorce and/or separation.  The couple in Their Wedding Journey does not have children, nor is the concept of divorce ever discussed in the text.  There are many texts of this nature which were written in the years which preceded 1970, texts which attempted to persuade the reader to try to work through their marriage at all costs.  This text would be best-suited for a much older reader, and it may help to establish the politics of a healthy marriage, but it does nothing in the way of handling the issue of divorce within the context of childhood, which is the issue at hand here. 

      Even after 1970, these trends remained very prevalent in the literary world.  Authors were still writing and publishing novels which failed to incorporate the issue of divorce within the context of childhood.  In 1977, John Updike published a book by the name of Marry Me.  The novel highlights the lives of two suburbanites named Jerry and Sally who are living in a town called Greenwood.  They are in their thirties and they are confronted with adultery.  The novel focuses largely upon the psychological and emotional effects of adultery upon Jerry and Sally.  Young children are not included in the spectrum of this novel, though it deals heavily with issues which are commonplace to many dysfunctional marriages, but I do not feel it is a piece of literature that a young reader could find him/herself relating to.  Marry Me may successfully portray and capture many of the emotions and scenarios involved with a failing marriage, but it does so from the perspectives of Jerry and Sally, which is a quality that may likely distance a young audience from being able to identify themselves or their own issues within the text.

      William Shakespeare was no stranger to writing about the issue of divorce.  The topic is heavy throughout the course of his play, Othello.  Iago attempts to court Desdemona, even though he is married to Emilia.  Othello kills Desdemona, because he suspects her of infidelity as a result of a handkerchief which had been found in the possession of Cassio.  There are many reasons why a young adult reader would be unable to connect and identify with this text.  First of all, the split between Othello and Desdemona comes as a result of a fantastical plan on the behalf of Iago, and is not likely to be a situation which is to be found in a ‘common’ divorce, therefore this factor would probably make younger readers feel disconnected from the text and feel that it has no relevance to their own situation if they may be dealing with a divorce themselves.  Secondly, there are no offspring as a result of this marriage, so we are unable to see how the incidences in Othello and Desdemona’s marriage would affect a child.  Lastly, the antiquity of the work may also hinder a child’s ability to engage with the text, feeling that it is too vintage and has nothing to do with them. 

      Hamlet also deals with the issue of divorce.  Hamlet’s uncle, Claudius, kills his father in order to marry his wife and attain the throne.   In this play, we can see the issue of infidelity, as Hamlet often vents his frustrations about his mother’s new marriage, especially due to the fact that it came so soon after the death of his father.  This is the first work we have seen where we are able to discover the point of view of the child of a divorce through the text.  There are, however, facts that disqualify this work from being considered as Young Adult Literature.  First of all, the language is very challenging and would likely cause difficulty for a young reader.  Secondly, the situation surrounding the divorce is so diluted and complicated by the murder subplot.  I do not believe that having your father killed by your uncle is what constitutes a situation which is common to your average divorce.  Among the other fantastical aspects of the plot, King Hamlet’s murder and the appearance of his ghost to Hamlet work to diminish the ability of a young reader to identify themselves and their own situations with those which are confronted by Hamlet in the text.  Lastly, and again, the setting and age of the text may also disable a young reader from feeling any sort of connection with the text.  When analyzing the treatment of divorce in Hamlet, we are able to see that there is literature out there (previous to 1970) which speaks from the perspective of the victim of a parental separation, but that it is ineffective as Young Adult literature and in mimicking scenarios which are likely to arise in a commonplace divorce. 

      “Then a much more rapid and dramatic rise in divorce frequency began, starting during the 1960s.” (Whyte, 2) With the emergence of a larger divorce rate in the 1960’s came the emergence of literature aimed at helping younger children to confront issues closely associated with divorce.  I have found and included several works of literature published since that time that speaks directly to children and works to align itself with their own struggles when going through a divorce. 

1.                  Nelson, Blake.  Paranoid Park. Viking Press, 2006.

The unnamed protagonist of the story is sixteen years old and deals with various issues that could be considered to be rather common to teenagers.  His girlfriend is anxious to have sex with him, but he does not seem to be ready.  He witnesses the death of a railroad worker, and the book is his confession of this, his dark secret.  In the midst of all of this, his parents are in the process of being divorced, and all of these issues are debated in the text.  I feel that it would be a very good read for any reader from 7^th to 10^th grades.  The scenes that the protagonist must see and then describe are very relatable and if read by a student who was also dealing with these issues of divorce, or of losing their virginity, that they would be able to take some very valuable knowledge from being exposed to this book.  Many young children who are dealing with divorce become codependent themselves and have trouble getting into and maintaining healthy relationships, and I believe that this book would speak directly to children who are being faced with divorce and may be trying to initiate their own relationships, possibly becoming sexually active for the first time. 

2.                  Townshend, Sue.  The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, Aged 13 ¾. Turtleback Books, 2003.

This book is consistent of the diary entries of thirteen year old Adrian Mole.  He openly discusses the details of the decline of his parents’ relationship, including such elements as marital infidelity and issues of pregnancy felt from a woman’s perspective.  I feel this would be a very good read, especially for those close to the age of the story’s protagonist, Adrian Mole.  Anyone who has had parents who have may have cheated on each other could easily relate to this novel.  It may even be a good read for a young female who is dealing with a pregnancy and/or divorce.

3.                  Crutcher, Chris.  The Deep End. Kensington Pub Corporation. 2003

The novel is told from the perspective of Wilson Corder, a therapist.  The book deals with a very hard divorce, as Wilson treats a patient who is the mother of a young girl named Sabrina.  He is scared that Sabrina’s mother will kidnap her. The mother is an alcoholic and Sabrina is later killed.  This would be a great read for a teenager who is dealing with any of the following issues: divorce, child abuse, and parental alcoholism.  Ideal readers could range anywhere from 7^th to 12^th grade. 

4.                  Brown, Mark And Brown, Laurene Krasny. Dinosaurs Divorce! A Guide For Changing Families. Little Brown & Co, 1986.

This is a book which would be best suited for younger readers.  It would probably be most effective with readers who were in 5^th grade or younger.  I think it is an amazing book.  It describes divorce from many different angles.  It explores ideas like the incorporation of new step-parents and step-siblings into the family and attempts boldly to express why two people choose to divorce.  Overall, I found it a touching book and a potentially great medium for expressing divorce to young readers.

5.                  Masurel, Claire And Denton, Katie MacDonald. Two Homes. Candlewick Press, 2001.

This book is also for younger audiences, likely being for readers in 5^th grade or younger.  It explains, in a very positive and optimistic way, the concept of growing up and going between two different parents in two different homes.  The idea is that the child will be best cared for in this kind of arrangement and that divorce is not necessarily a bad thing.  Both of the child’s parents clearly love her very much, and that seems to be the main moral of the story—that the divorce is best for the child. I think that the book is very heartwarming and could definitely help a young child to conceptualize and understand some of the aspects of their separation in a positive way. 

6.                  Thomas, Pat.  My Family’s Changing. Barron’s Educational Series, Incorporated, 1999.

This book is also written with younger readers in mind.  It would likely be best-suited for children younger than 5^th grade.  The most outstanding quality of the book was the way that it offered up many questions that might be posed by youngsters dealing with parental divorce, and then attempted to answer these questions in a manner which made the issues understandable and helped to pacify the curiosity of the young student.  The pictures make it a very accessible and engaging text.  It would be very helpful to a child who is going through a parental divorce/separation.

7.                  Lansky, Vicki.  It’s Not Your Fault, Koko Bear: A Read-Together Book for Parents and Young Children During Divorce.  The Book Peddlers, 1998.

Again, this is a book for younger readers, likely younger than 5^th grade.   I found that it would be a book that would be great to read along with a young student, either by a parent or a teacher.  It deals with many of the issues of anger and sorrow that a child will face during a divorce.  It emphasizes that the child is not to blame for the separation of their parents.  It explains many of the common problems confronted by families who are going through a divorce and a child who is living in two different places. 

8.                  Levins, Sandra.  Was It the Chocolate Pudding? Magination Press, 2005.

This book is for even younger readers than the previous books, likely being aimed at students between Kindergarten and 3^rd grade.  It explains, as Vicki Lansky’s book did, that the child is not at fault for, or to blame in any way, for the separation of the parents.  I liked that it explained things within the context of children living with a single father.  This is a very good book for any child growing up in a single-parent home as the result of a divorce.

9.                  Avi.  Blue Heron. Simon & Schuster, 1992.

This book is for readers anywhere from 4^th to 9^th grade.  The protagonist is a young girl named Maggie who is staying with her father and new stepmother after the divorce of her parents.  It deals with many issues which are attached to divorce and the incorporation of step-parents and siblings.  This novel is the touching story of a young girl who is dealing with a new situation and would likely aid a young student, (most likely a female) to deal with issues of divorce and explain the politics of, and reasons for, having to establish a new family arrangement. 

10.              Hobbs, Will. Changes in Latitudes. Atheneum, 1998.

This book is aimed at readers who are a little bit more mature.  An ideal age-range for a reader would be from 9^th to 12^th grades.  The book deals with a sixteen-year old male protagonist who is on a family getaway.  He is staying with his mother and sister in Mexico, and he begins to conceptualize that his father may not have come because of the fact that he is thinking of getting a divorce.  He ponders the idea of his parents’ separation.  A good and engaging read for teenagers, but doesn’t deal with the idea of divorce very extensively.

11.              Henkes, Kevin. Blue Lake Moon. Greenwillow, 2008.

This is also a book for high school readers ranging anywhere from 9^th to 12^th grade.  It deals with two different issues from the perspectives of two young boys, Mitch and Spencer.  Mitch’s parents have divorced and Spencer is very curious about his brother’s early passing.  The two boys bond over the summer and express these issues to each other through various conversations.  This book would be great for any teen dealing with divorce or the loss of a sibling.  I think it would be best-suited for a male reader.  It is a heartwarming book that explores ideas of loss, divorce, and how friendship can help to heal those wounds. 

      In conclusion, I believe that it is important to notice this shift in the treatment of divorce in literature as a result in the rise in the divorce rate.  More literature is being published on the topic of divorce, and it is being written with young readers in mind.  Now more than ever before in literary history, authors are taking a stand to help youngsters to deal with the struggles and everyday issues involved with their parent’s divorce. 

1. Stein, Allen F.  After the Vows Were Spoken—Marriage in American Literary Realism. Ohio State University Press. 1984.  Page 170.
2. Stein, Allen F.  After the Vows Were Spoken—Marriage in American Literary Realism. Ohio State University Press. 1984.  Page 170.
3. Whyte, Martin King.  Marriage in America: A Communitarian Perspective. Rowman & Littlefield.  2000.  Page 2. 

Upon reading Henry David Thoreau’s Walden, I noticed that he often made references to eastern theology and philosophy within his text.  He also mentions a book called the Bhagavad-Gita, a book from which I believe many of the more eastern beliefs in Walden arose.  I will speak briefly on just a few issues from the Bhagavad-Gita and explain how they re-emerge in Thoreau’s novel.  In particular, I will illustrate how Thoreau uses or innovates upon some of the principles of the Yogi, as explained in the Gita, such as the importance of finding your own duty, or Dharma, despite the influence of popular culture or external influences.  Other issues discussed are the Yogi’s balance between action as inaction, the renunciation of desires and material attachments, as well as the notion that the Yogi should recognize the self in everything around them, most specifically—in nature.  These eastern principles and beliefs are all essential to Thoreau’s novel and extremely prevalent within it.

            In the Bhagavad-Gita, the word duty is often substituted for the word ‘Dharma.’  Annie Besant defines the word Dharma as:  the essential nature of a thing, that which makes it what it is externally; hence the laws of its being, its duty.” (Besant,29)  In essence, what an English-speaking westerner would call one’s ‘duty’ is what an easterner would call one’s “Dharma.”  In the pages of the Bhagavad-Gita, the deity, also called the “Blessed Lord” is speaking to a soldier, named Arjuna, who is reluctant to go to battle.  The god-figure tells the soldier: “But if thou wilt not carry on this righteous warfare, then casting away thine own duty and thine honour, thou wilt incur sin.” (Besant, 39-40) The path is a difficult one, but the Blessed Lord emphatically persuades Arjuna to choose the correct path.  The Lord goes on to state:  “Better one’s own duty, though destitute of merit, then the duty of another, well-discharged.  Better death in the discharge of one’s own duty, the duty of another is full of danger,” and later, again echoing his previous words: “Better is one’s own duty though destitute of merits than the well-executed duty of another.” (Besant, 193) The Blessed Lord reiterates that Arjuna must be cautious and loyally follow his own path, rather than the path that someone else has paved for him. 

Henry David Thoreau also speaks in regards to these ideas of finding one’s own duty, or Dharma, despite those who may try to influence you to do otherwise.  Thoreau speaks openly about this issue, inquiring:  “How godlike, how immortal is he? See how he cowers and sneaks, how vaguely all the day he fears, not being immortal nor divine, but the slave and prisoner of his own opinion of himself, a fame won by his own deeds.  Public opinion is a weak tyrant compared with our own private opinion.” (Thoreau, 1634) In this passage, Thoreau makes clear distinctions between public and private opinion, stating that public opinion is the inferior of the two and implying that one should seek within for direction.  Later in the novel, Thoreau states that he does not wish for people to simply follow in his footsteps, writing:  “…but I would have each one be very careful to find out his own way, and not his father’s or his mother’s or his neighbor’s instead.”  (Thoreau, 1670)  Even though he believes his path to be a righteous one, he does not wish for others simply to fall into a state of blind compliance, but to discover their own path in life, or their own Dharma, if you will.  Thoreau does this by escaping from the mores of society and constructing his own principles of living.  He does this chiefly by transcending and destroying common views of work and redefining what was commonly accepted as necessary for the maintenance of human life.  Thoreau makes fine distinctions between action and inaction, work and leisure, and these issues are also strongly tied to the Bhagavad-Gita. 

In the Bhagavad-Gita, the Blessed Lord repeatedly debates about action versus inaction, and takes careful steps in explaining the differences among them.  Early on in the text, the Lord instructs Arjuna that he “…shall cast way the bonds of action” (Besant, 41)  Seeing action as an activity which possesses the ability to bind someone is quintessential to understanding the views of action and inaction, both in the Bhagavad-Gita and in Walden.  The public opinion of what is commonly deemed ‘lazy’ plays into these notions of action versus inaction.  The public makes one believe that a certain amount of work is necessary and accepted.  If anyone works less than what is deemed common, they may likely be coined as a ‘lazy’ person.  The Gita goes on to make detailed distinctions about these ideas:

“Man winneth not freedom from action by abstaining from activity, not by mere renunciation doth he rise to perfection.  Nor can anyone, even for an instant, remain really actionless; for helplessly is everyone driven to action by the qualities born of nature.  Perform thou right action, for action is superior to inaction, even the maintenance of thy body would not be possible.” (Besant, 52-53)

The Blessed Lord admits that it is impossible for a human to abstain from action for any period of time, going on to state that as a result of this fact, it is thus important to “perform right action,” and therefore to do what is deemed by the self to be necessary.  Thoreau often speaks of the necessity of certain actions within his novel:  “I learned from my two years’ experience that it would cost incredibly little trouble to obtain one’s necessary food, even in this latitude; that a man may use as simple a diet as the animals, and yet retain health and strength.” (Thoreau, 1664) Here, Thoreau illustrates the separation between luxury and necessity, here and throughout Walden, emphasizing that what one really needs, in terms of work, shelter, and food, ultimately amounts to very little.  In the Bhagavad-Gita, these distinctions between action and inaction make up nearly a quarter of the text, and are very integral to a full understanding of it. The Blessed Lord states that: “the man who rejoiceth in the self, with the self is satisfied, and is content in the self, for him verily there is nothing to do; for him there is no interest in things done in this world, not any in things not done, nor doth any object of his depend on any being.” (Besant, 55)

        A reader can easily see how these ideas can be applied to the text of Walden.  Thoreau builds his own cabin and makes his own living.  His house and food is his, and he does not need anyone else in order to survive.  The Blessed Lord says in the Gita: “He who thus knoweth me is not bound by actions.” (Besant, 64) Here, he again uses the word “bound” in order to describe the relationship to action.  Thoreau applies this idea to modern society, stating that most people are bound to things like maintaining a career and providing themselves with the luxuries that they have always known and believe that they need.  Thoreau writes that: “A lady once offered me a mat, but as I had no room to spare within the house, nor time to spare within or without to shake it, I declined it. It is best to avoid the beginnings of evil.” (Thoreau, 1668)  In this passage, he makes clear statements in reference to action and inaction.  He did not believe in taking pains to maintain things like carpets, or dusting off the three pieces of limestone that he one had as knick-knacks in his dwelling place.  He believed that taking the rug would bind him to the duty of shaking it out and maintaining it.  This would begin to consume his leisure time and to control his ability to live independently from the rug and the cleaning of it.  Thoreau later writes that: “For more than five years I maintained myself thus solely by the labor of my hands, and I found that, by working about six weeks in a year, I could meet all of the expenses for living.”  (Thoreau, 1669)  Again, he makes statements in opposition to common perceptions of how much work, or action, is necessary in order for human survival.  One of the most important ideas behind the novel is that society makes you believe that you need to live a certain way, that you much work a conventional and ‘safe’ job, that you must own this and you must own that—but that it is possible to be wiser than the norm and to transcend all of these preconceived notions in regards to human survival.  He shows that necessity is relative to the individual.  “It is not necessary that a man should earn his living by the sweat of his brow, unless he sweats easier than I do,” (Thoreau, 1670) and “I do not wish to be any more busy with my hands than is necessary.” (Thoreau, 1685) In these passages, Thoreau makes further statements in reference to the necessity of work, or action.  He believes that very little action is necessary for survival, and that his experiment has allowed him to become virtually free from the bonds of action. 

            Another ideal which is critical to the Bhagavad-Gita is the ideal that the Yogi must be free from personal attachments and desires.  The Blessed Lord confesses that:

“When a man abandoneth, O Partha, all the desires of the heart, and is satisfied in the self by the self, then he is called stable in mind,” (Besant, 46) going on to state: “Let the yogi engage himself in yoga, remaining in a secret place by himself, with thought and self subdued, free from hope and greed.  In a pure place, established on a fixed seat of his own, neither very much raised or very low…” (Besant, 81)  Thoreau accomplishes this with his experiment at Walden Pond.  He goes into a “secret place,” “by himself,” which is neither too luxurious nor too lowly.  The Blessed Lord goes on to state in the Gita: “He who… is… self-reliant, to whom a lump of earth, a rock and gold are alike… he is said to have crossed over the qualities.” (Besant, 160) Thoreau echoes these lines in Walden: “Genius is not a retainer to any emperor, nor is its material silver, or gold, or marble, except to a trifling extent.” (Thoreau, 1662)  In this passage, Thoreau implies that he does not believe any metal to be more valuable than another, that their values are man-made and relative.  Thoreau denounces attachment to material possessions throughout the novel, asking: “Shall we always study to obtain more of these things, and not sometimes be content with less?”  He describes their bondage to desires and material possessions, recalling having seen a family moving their furniture and looking through their various possessions:  “I could never tell from inspecting such a load whether it belonged to a so-called rich man or a poor one; the owner always seemed poverty-stricken.” (Thoreau, 1667) He states that they look “poverty-stricken” regardless of whether or not they are well-off or not.  The point that he is making is that they have such a bondage to their trap that they drag it around with them, while a muskrat will chew off its own limb to be free, that human beings prefer to drag these things around with them until their death.  Like the Bhagavad-Gita, Walden emphasizes the renunciation of this bondage to the material endorses a general simplification of life in general: “Simplify, simplify.  Instead of three meals a day, if it be necessary to eat but one; instead of a hundred dishes, five; and reduce other things in proportion.”  (Thoreau, 1681)

            In the Bhagavad-Gita, The Blessed Lord tells Arjuna that “The self, harmonized by Yoga, seeth the self abiding in all beings, all being in the self, everywhere he seeth the same.”  (Besant, 85)  Here, the Lord implies that the harmonized self can see itself in everything.  This is another theme from the Gita which can clearly be seen to parallel ideas that can be found in Walden.  Thoreau writes: “I go and come with a strange liberty in Nature, a part of herself.”  (Thoreau, 1702)  In this passage, we see a similar kind of unity with his surroundings.  He believes himself to be a “part of herself,” or a part of nature.  He believes himself to actually have become one with mother nature, whom I assume is the recipient of the ‘her’ pronoun. Near the end of the novel, Thoreau identifies the human spirit with an object of nature: “The life in us is like water in the river.”  (Thoreau, 1810) He believes the running of the river to be symbolic of human life.  This also ties into eastern beliefs because the Bhagavad-Gita speaks often of the continuation of human life and reincarnation.  The representation of human life as a river that is continuously running and flowing implies that he believes, as the Hindus do, that life is everlasting and goes on renewing itself.  At any rate, he recognizes human life and qualities of himself in the world around him, which is what the Gita said that the Yogi must do, when they ‘seeth the self abiding in all things.”  Thoreau speaks again in reference to this idea, stating that: “Yet I experienced that the most sweet and tender, the most innocent and encouraging society may be found in any natural object.” (Thoreau, 1703) He sees a representation of a more perfect society when he looks to nature.  Later in the novel, he expands upon this idea, contrasting the harmonious society that he sees in nature around him with that of human civilizations, writing:

“I was suddenly sensible of such sweet and beneficent society in Nature, in the very patterning of the drops, and in every sound and sight around my house, and infinite and unaccountable friendliness all at once like an atmosphere sustaining me, as made the fancied advantages of human neighborhood insignificant, and I have never thought of them since.”  (Thoreau, 1703)

Here, he implies that he recognizes such a harmony in the interactions of the natural world around him that it causes him to recognize such a discord and chaos in the “human neighborhood” that it causes him to cast it aside and never think of them again. 

            In conclusion, I believe it to be clear that Henry David Thoreau’s experiment was highly influenced and inspired by the Bhagavad-Gita.  He moved into the woods because he believed that the majority of American society was living in a fashion that he did not agree with, and he was searching for a better way.  He chose his own duty, or Dharma, in that he persisted with his experiment even when people tried to dissuade him, telling him that he could not survive off of vegetables alone.  He chose a life of inaction, rather than a life of perpetual servitude.  He performed the most minimal amount of work necessary for himself to survive, and he was not bound to a job, or to his estate, or to any material possessions or desires.  He lived as one with nature until he discovered a more natural state of human existence, becoming nature himself.  As a result of these qualities, Henry David Thoreau’s Walden could be seen as an American documentary of one who is attempting to incorporate the principles of the Yogi (as described in the Bhagavad-Gita) into their lives, and succeeding. 

1. Besant, Annie.  The Bhagavad-Gita.  The Theological Publishing House.  1974. 
2. Thoreau, Henry David. Walden.  Anthology of American Literature, Ninth Edition.  Pearson Education. 2007.

“Simon,… this is Anastasius, he’ll be the new mechanic.  Take him on into the warehouse and show him around.” 

I nodded my head, gesturing for Anastasius to follow me into the back. We passed from a dimply lit office into a large warehouse that was illuminated by fluorescent light.  Once we had entered the light, I turned around to get a better look at him.

“Well, Sir, this is the place.” I said. He looked around.

“Anastasius, huh,” I said, “I’ve never heard a name like that before.”

He said nothing, only nodded and continued to scan the room.  He was wearing black boots and a matching leather jacket, his collar pulled up high around his neck like James Dean in “Rebel Without A Cause.”  He was in his mid-thirties, overweight, and balding.  He slouched, and wore the brim of his cap so low that you could not see much of his face. 

            “I’m Simon, Anastasius.” We shook hands, though he did not look me in the eye.  I gave him a brief tutorial about his workstation.  It lasted about an hour.

            “Gimme a holler if you have any questions.”

            “Thank you,” he replied, as he stared intently at his workstation. I went on to my duties.  We did not speak for the rest of the night. 

            He was a quiet worker, diligent and humble.  He rarely spoke, but he was not impolite.  As a result of his introverted tendencies, many of our co-workers immediately concluded that he was either socially inept, mentally retarded, or some kind of sexual predator.  I did not know what to think of him, to be quite honest.  But, unlike them, I was not intimidated by his silence.  I was intrigued by it.  I felt I could relate to him in some way, though I knew not why or how. 

After about a month, Anastasius approached the warehouse supervisor one morning:

“Boss…”

“Yes, Anastasius?”

“Do you think it would be all right if I brought a radio into work?”

The boss deliberated a moment, and replied:

“Well, I don’t see why not.  Yes, you can bring a radio, just don’t play it so loudly that you all can’t hear each other to communicate.  Sure, no problem.”

The following day, Anastasius came into work bearing a small boom-box.  It was bandaged, and its frame was held together with duct tape.  The radio bore the words Rock-n-Roll Will Never Die in permanent marker upon its face.  I smiled as I walked by his workstation.  I did not know why.  Something about all of it amused me. 

He was listening to a rock station. I felt this was a good opportunity to try to have a conversation with him. 

“So, Anastasius, tell me, what kinds of music do you like?”

He seemed surprised that I had asked such a question, as if I had reminded him of some fond childhood memory.

“Rock music mostly, but I like all kinds really.” He replied, looking me in the eye for the first time ever. 

“Right on, man, I’m really into heavy metal and rock as well, but I like it all.  We should hang out sometime… trade some of our favorite music… whatever, ya know?”

A few moments passed.  I believe that he felt awkward. 

“Well, no pressure,” I said. He looked back towards me and said:

“Maybe. Sure.”

“Okay, cool.” I walked away. 

8:08. How can they judge him so quickly? I wondered about the nature of Anastasius’ silence, wondered what the cause of it may be. 11:02. Another day, another dollar. Chikk-tingg! The machine punched my card.  When I began my walk home, Anastasius was still pounding away at a bent screen.

I was almost home by the time his van pulled up next to me. 

“Would you like a ride?” he yelled through the passenger-side window.  I nodded, and hopped into the vehicle. 

“Cold out there tonight,” he said.

“Sure is,” I replied, putting my hands over the heat vents.  He turned up the music on the radio.  I directed him through my neighborhood, and we made our way to my house. 

“Have a good one, thanks for the ride.”

“See you tomorrow,” he said, and drove away.

A couple of weeks went by, and we got to know each other a little better.  I found out he was in the Air Force and that he liked a lot of the same music that I did.  I began riding with him to work regularly.  One night, after a late night on the job, I asked him if he would care to have a drink.  He enthusiastically accepted the invitation. 

Vodka. 

Straight shots mixed with soda. 

            We sat in my living room, listening to an album. It was an old favorite of mine that always seemed to invoke a special feeling in me, and somewhat inexplicably.  We drank and talked.  The music had moved into the room and encircled us, lending a sense of comfort to the room.  Conversation seemed more inviting, and the air of the environment seemed lightened by a strange force—acute and ineffable. A song came to an end and then there was silence.

            “I have always loved music,” he said.

            “I agree.”

            “Sometimes… sometimes I think that without music I might not be here today,” he confessed.  I emphatically nodded my head, and grinned.

            “Agreed, it seems to have a healing power like nothing else... it’s like a perfect marriage, one of those fine unions between communication and emotion,” I replied.

            “Music saved my life in a way.  It’s been like therapy for me.  In times when I had nothing, I had music… keeping me alive… keeping me strong.”

            “I can relate to that,” I added.

            We had become intoxicated.  He seemed to have changed right before my eyes, undergone some kind of subconscious metamorphosis.  He was suddenly so outspoken.  I poured another shot and took it.  I poured one more for him.  He tipped it back without a wince.  The music slowed, it was a sentimental song.              

            “I used to be an alcoholic,” he said. “After I got out of the service, I drank quite a bit. I would spend weeks on end holed up in my apartment.  I never came out… only to get more booze.  I was real depressed back then.  I felt like my life was going nowhere, and that it had lost all its meaning.  Those were some of the worst days of my life.  I used to listen to a lot of sad, sad music back then.  It did me all the worse.  Music can be like a magnifyin’ glass in that way, ya know?” 

            “No, I don’t, Sir, I’m not sure what you mean.” 

            “Well, it seemed like when I was in the worst of moods that I would always hear some sad song, and it would remind me of my sweet Dina.  The songs would just make me cry and cry and I would remember all of the old memories that I was trying to forget.” 

            “Hmm,” I said. I dared not to pry further into the matter, for fear of trampling upon already caving grounds.  The music picked up.  The song was heavy, and full of a nostalgic reminiscence.  It had an eerie quality and seemed to make the moment more meaningful.  Chills crawled down my spine.  I pulled a pack of cigarettes from my pocket.  Placing one in my mouth with my left hand, I held the open pack out toward him with my right. I lit his cigarette, and then my own. 

            “I haven’t drank in over four years,” he said.

            “Wow, that’s quite a stretch,” I replied.

            “Well, like I said, I went on quite a binge there when I lost my fiancé.”

            “Ah, you were engaged. I’m sorry to hear that it didn’t work out—where is she now, if you don’t mind me asking?”

            “She died…”

            “I’m sorry—I apologize for bringing it up.”

            “I’m the one that brought it up, it’s fine,” he said.

            “She died in a car accident about five years ago.  She was six months pregnant.  I was so shook up by it all that I just started drinking.  I didn’t know what else to do.”

            “It’s understandable, Anastasius, I think most people might have done the same in your shoes.”

            “Yeah. Well, after she died, a few months went by and I didn’t really have many friends left in the world.  My mother and father were both dead, my brother was the only one I had left, and he lived in Minnesota.  I was kinda on my own.”

            “That’s too bad,” I said, attempting to comfort him.

            “You wanna see something cool?” he asked. 

            “Sure,” I answered.  He proceeded to put his cigarette out on his left forearm. The air smelled of burnt hair and flesh.

            “Doesn’t that hurt?” I asked.

            “Not really,” he said.

            I wondered if his pain was real.  The music had changed, undergone a metamorphosis of its own.  It was heavy with emotion, building upon itself like pyramids that make themselves from nothing, giving life to something borne from pure imagination.

            “…so I was out on my own, drinking every day.  I was stayin out at my camp, near Hancock, and I stayed inside most of the time.  I had a wood heater, ya see, so the only time I ever really went outside was to chop more wood.  Well I woke up one day and started drinking from the moment I opened my eyes.  I was completely hammered by noon.  I was listening to an old tune about a man whose love had been ruined.  It was a Johnny Cash song, named “Delia’s Gone.”  Anyway, I remember I was lying in bed, naked, wrapped up in the blankets.  I was crying out her name, over and over.  Dina! Dina! I think I had nearly lost my mind.  The radio kept blarin out that line “Gone, gone, gone,” and all I could think of was Dina. I jumped out of the bed and smashed that radio against the wall.  Then I sunk down in a heap on the floor.  A little while later, I took my Remington double-barrel off the wall, and walked out into the woods.  I was fixin’ to kill myself.  I climbed up the side of this hill.  I was breathing hard, I was really tired from climbing that hill, and fell down.  I sat in a small patch of snow, leaning up against a birch tree.  I pulled a picture of Dina out of my pocket.  Seeing her calmed me.  I remember feeling really peaceful.”

            A few moments passed in silence.

            “…She was so beautiful.  She looked so happy.  I wanted to be with her.  I remember having tears just well up in my eyes, and I couldn’t see her picture anymore… so then I… I placed the end of the gun into my mouth.  I unclasped the safety.  I placed my thumb over the trigger and closed my eyes.  Goodbye, I said. But just then, I was startled by the sound of a stick breaking just behind me. You would not believe what happened next…”

            “What?” I asked, enthusiastically. The music had reached its climax.

            “I was frightened by that sound.  I knew I wasn’t alone in those woods.  Out of instinct, I turned around.  I saw a black bear standing but a few yards away, standing on its hind legs.  I stood in awe.  Then I snapped to my senses and slowly turned the barrel from myself unto the bear that stood before me.  The bear soon became relaxed and we both walked away slowly, both of us watching each other the whole way.” 

            “Wow,” I replied. “That’s quite a story.”

            “I think that the bear was something more than a bear, like some kind of messenger… some kind of… I don’t know what.  Something told me that if I’d killed myself, I’d never have the chance to see Dina’s face again. I don’t know.  I guess I just realized that I had to try to go on with my life, as hard as it might be.” 

            The tempo slowed and the mood was calm. Conversation had ceased, the silence was heavy, but did not cause discomfort. 

            “Music offers us so many things…” I said.

            “Yeah, this one’s got a nice melody,” he replied.

            “It has the ability to make us feel so much.  It can heal wounds, or intensify the pain of those wounds.  Music can help us to bear the heaviest of burdens, or add weight to those burdens,” I said. 

            “I agree. Music really helped me, especially when I stopped drinking.  Sometimes I felt like the singer was speaking directly to me.  When you’re in the dumps like that, It helps to know that you’re not the only one out there who feels that way.”

            The album had reached its conclusion.

The concept of time is a very prevalent issue in Joseph Conrad’s novel, The Secret Agent. In the book, time is portrayed as a man-made, empirically imposed force which dominates the psychology of the novel’s characters.  Through the way these characters individually conceive of time and the way that they process certain moments, time is shown as a largely relative force which can work both for and against humanity. Some characters are psychologically enslaved by the imposition of this force, and others are able to think in a way which allows the human mind to operate on a level that “rises above” and transcends time.

            In chapter five, Chief Inspector Heat visualizes the last moments of a drowning man.  As he reflects in this way, he begins to understand how much can be contained in a moment, in a minute, or in the blink of an eye:

“Chief Inspector Heat rose by the force of sympathy, which is a form of fear, above the vulgar conception of time. Instantaneous! He remembered all he had ever read in popular publications of long and terrifying dreams dreamed in the instant of waking; of the whole past life lived with frightful intensity by a drowning man as his doomed head bobs up, screaming, for the last time. The inexplicable mysteries of conscious existence beset Chief Inspector Heat till he evolved a horrible notion that ages of atrocious pain and mental torture could be contained between two successive winks of an eye.”

Feeling compassion for the victims of the attack, Inspector Heat is compelled by sympathy to conceptualize time in a way that breaks free from the usual and standard perceptions of it. Although the amount of time contained within two blinks of an eye seems like a very short amount of time, the human mind can fathom and conceive so many thoughts, feelings, and emotions within that span. This passage implies that there are two very conflicting conceptions of time within the human psyche.  There is what the narrator calls the “vulgar conception of it,” which is a very standardized and subjective understanding of time as a force, in which time seems to work against a character by moving faster than their thought processes. This dynamic is directly contrasted by the reflections of Inspector Heat, as his thoughts display evidence to the contrary: that the human mind is more powerful than the forces of time. 

            When Mr. Verloc is murdered by his wife in chapter eleven, his thought process is trapped within this “vulgar conception of time.” It seems that his mind is operating at a much slower rate than that of his knife-wielding wife:

“He saw partly on the ceiling a clenched hand holding a carving knife. It flickered up and down. Its movements were leisurely. They were leisurely enough for Mr. Verloc to recognize the limb and the weapon. They were leisurely enough for Mr. Verloc to elaborate a plan of defense, involving a dash behind the table, and the felling of the woman to the ground with a heavy wooden chair. But they were not leisurely enough to allow Mr. Verloc the time to move either hand or foot. The knife was already planted in his breast. It met no resistance on its way.”

In this passage, Mr. Verloc seems to be betrayed by his own conception of time.  It is  stated that the movements of the murder weapon were “leisurely enough for [him] to elaborate a plan of defense.” Because the movements were shown to be so drawn out, and yet Verloc is still incapable of stopping them, we can assume that his ability to process and react to the events unfolding before him is slow and ineffective and ultimately leads to his demise.  To put it simply, Mrs. Verloc is able to act much more quickly than her husband is able to conceptualize the moment and to react.  Although he has the time to develop an apparently “elaborate” plan of action, it is shown to be nothing more than staircase wit, and his thoughts are shown to be futile and meaningless.  Despite the fact that he is able to imagine how he will react, he is unable to react in time to save himself.  Thus, Mr. Verloc is betrayed by his own conception of time. 

            Mrs. Verloc is also betrayed by time in a similar way.  Time haunts her after she has murdered her husband. In chapter eleven, the ticking of the second hand of the clock melds together with the trickling of her husband’s blood: 

“Nothing moved in the parlour till Mrs. Verloc raised her head slowly and looked at the clock with inquiring mistrust. She had become aware of a ticking sound in the room. It grew upon her ear, while she remembered clearly that the clock on the wall was silent, had no audible tick. What did it mean by beginning to tick so loudly all of a sudden? Its face indicated ten minutes to nine. Mrs. Verloc cared nothing for time, and the ticking went on. She concluded it could not be the clock, and her sullen gaze moved along the walls, wavered, and became vague, while she strained her hearing to locate the sound. Tic, tic, tic.”

This passage illustrates various psychological constructions of time.  It states that Mrs. Verloc looks to the clock “with inquiring mistrust.”  This shows that she begins to become paranoid and judgmental in her conception of time.  The fact that the ticking seems to her to begin all of a sudden displays the concept that she was probably just not paying attention to time in the moments that preceded her husband’s murder.  This lends itself to the idea of time as a relative and empirically enforced principle in the novel.  In the passage that states that Mrs. Verloc “cared nothing for time, and the ticking went on,” we are able to infer a lot about her conception of time.  In this moment, time is being represented to Mrs. Verloc by the trickling of Mr. Verloc’s blood.  Time does not cease to “tic” forward simply because Mrs. Verloc “cared nothing for it.”  This implies that even though a person is able to ignore time, that the mortality of the human life will inevitably impose itself upon us anyway, and that as humans we cannot escape it.

            In chapter thirteen, the Professor states that “[m]ankind… does not know what it wants.”  Ossipon replies by saying that “[i]t’s time that you need.  You – if you met a man who could give you for certain ten years of time, you would call him your master.'” This passage is indicative of yet another conception of time.  By stating that time is what “you need” as a human being, this section illustrates that time is all we have as humans, and that we have the ability to view time in many ways.  We can view time as an opposing force.  We can view time as an empirically imposed social construct which keeps us from fully understanding and appreciating the depth of the human psyche.  We can view it as the black face of our own mortality.  Time can work for us if we can “rise above” it, or it can work against us if we allow the moment to get ahead of us.  In the end, time is inevitable and unstoppable.  But all we have is time on this earth, in this life, and I believe that if this novel teaches us one major lesson, it shows us the many ways in which time can be squandered, ignored, and taken for granted.  But it also establishes the fact that if a man can “give you for certain ten years of time,” that we “would call him [our] master.”  Time is shown to be many things in The Secret Agent, but first and foremost it is shown to be elusive, fragile, and fleeting.  We can use the time we’re given, or it can use us. 

Bibliography:

Conrad, Joseph. The Secret Agent. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998.

This piece highlights the main differences between the characters of Hamlet and Laertes, and their corresponding roles as revenge heroes in William Shakespeares Hamlet, explaining why Hamlet is an atypical revenge hero, and illustrating how these differences allow the two avengers act as foils to each other.                         

                Hamlet always thinks things through before taking action, while Laertes is able to act purely upon impulse.  For example, Hamlet initially believes the words of his father's ghost wholeheartedly, and accepts his role as his father's avenger: "And thy commandment all alone shall live 102 Within the book and volume of my brain 103 Unmixed with baser matter.  Yes, yes, by heaven." [1.5, 102-104] In this passage, he seems to speak with conviction about avenging his father's death.  He states that he will let no other lesser thoughts enter his mind until his deed is done.  Hamlet's words imply that he is focused upon revenge, and that he will not be distracted by any other means.  But, shortly after, Hamlet begins to doubt the authenticity of his father's spirit, and thinks that it may be the devil, instructing him to do evil:  "The spirit that I have seen 575 May be the devil, and the devil hath power 576 T'assume a pleasing shape." [2.2, 575-577]  He feels that he would easily be led astray by such a devil, because he was in such a vulnerable state.  This passage implies that he may not fully subscribe to the actions which he had earlier seemed so passionate about.  Hamlet then designs a plan, in order to see if he can get a reaction out of Claudius, because he desires further clarification that his actions are justified.  Claudius falls into his mousetrap, and Hamlet seems to have the motivation he needs.  But when he finds Claudius praying, and even as the new king is confessing the very sin of his brother's murder, but Hamlet hesitates yet again:  "And now I'll do't.  72 [He draws his sword] 73 and so a goes to heaven, 74 And so am I revenged." [3.3, 72-75]  Here, even though He has heard a testimonial by his father's killer, Hamlet stays his sword, fearing that his actions would send the guilty party to heaven.  In this passage, he deliberates between an impulse to avenge his father's death, and an uncertainty about the consequences of his actions.  Again, Hamlet procrastinates as a result of his reverence for the spiritual world, and due to a sudden grip of conscience. In the next scene, we find Hamlet in his mother's chamber.  He and his mother, Gertrude, are having a heated conversation about the nature of King Hamlet's untimely death, as well as her incestuous marriage to the king's brother.  During this verbal exchange, Hamlet grows more and more erratic.  When he suddenly stabs Polonius out of impulse, Hamlet acts completely out of character.  This is the only time in the play when he acts spontaneously, and in doing so, he makes a very grave mistake.  As a result of his actions, he begins a second revenge sequence, which consequentially ends his life.

  He often acts spontaneously, and without thought. He always feels justified in his behavior, even if his intentions are violent, vengeful, and malicious. Laertes does not flinch.  He does not stop to worry about either the earthly or the eternal consequences of his actions, which completely contrasts the thoughtful nature which Hamlet has shown thus far.  For example, after the convincing speech regarding his father's request, "thy commandment all alone shall live," Hamlet later despairs about the task which he has been given:  "O cursed spite 189 That ever I was born to set it right!"  [1.5, 189-190]  In this passage, Hamlet regrets that he must be the one to undertake this deed.  He does not desire his role as avenger, but is burdened by it.  In this way, Laertes is Hamlet's opposite.  He immediately accepts his role as avenger, and never contemplates notions of choosing another path:  "How came he dead?  I'll not be juggled with. 126  To hell, allegiance!  Vows to the blackest devil ! 127 Conscience and grace to the profoundest pit!  128 I dare damnation.  To this point I stand, 129  That both the worlds I give to negligence, 130 Let come what comes.  Only I'll be revenged 131 Most throughly for my father."  Everything that Laertes says in this passage directly contrasts with Hamlet's character.  He is not concerned with the consequences of his actions, nor does he falter in his convictions.  Laertes is willing to do whatever it takes, regardless of the consequences, in order to achieve revenge.  He states courageously: "Let come what comes."  This passage clearly illustrates the fact that, unlike Hamlet, Laertes is not worried about what ill-fortune may come from his actions.  Laertes' words act as a very drastic contrast to Hamlet's famous soliloquy, in which he contemplates suicide:  "To die, to sleep.  66 To sleep, perchance to dream.  Ay, there's the rub, 67 For in that sleep of death what dreams may come 68 When we have shuffled off this mortal coil 69 Must give us pause." [3.1, 66-70]  In this soliloquy, Hamlet debates between life and death.  He attempts to decide whether it is better to endure the troubles of life, or to oppose them. This passage shows that his thoughts are balanced, and that his mind works in a way that is dualistic.  He always considers every possible outcome which could result from his actions.  This speech distinctively illustrates Hamlet's nature, which lies in a constant state of deliberation.  Laertes, on the other hand, does not possess this characteristic.  He is only concerned with one thing: revenge.   

  In mine ignorance 193 Your skill shall, like a star i'th' darkest night, 194 Stick fiery off indeed." [5.2, 193-195]  Hamlet's words imply that he is nothing but a foil for Laertes.   When he says "in mine ignorance," the ignorance that he speaks of is mentioned in relation to his ignorance as a revenge hero.  When compared, the behavioral patterns of both Laertes and Hamlet seem to shine brighter, as Hamlet says: "Your skill shall, like a star i'th' darkest night, stick fiery off indeed." The skill that he is referring to is the skillfully merciless nature of Laertes as an avenger. When these characters are set up against each other in such a deliberate manner, their differences become more apparent.  Hamlet is a foil for Laertes in that he is an imperfect avenger.  Hamlet is governed by thought, by a reverence for the divine, and most of all; by his own conscience.  Because of this, Laertes also stands as a foil for the character of Hamlet.  Laertes seems reckless and hasty, when compared to Hamlet.  His actions seem thoughtless, as though driven chiefly by instinctual impulses. Laertes is the epitome of the classic revenge hero.  He is as remorseless as he is ruthless, and he fears no obstacle which may stand in the way of his quest for vengeance.  Because of the fact that Hamlet does not possess any of the typical characteristics of an avenger, but still succeeds in exacting revenge for his father's death, he is an atypical revenge hero.

  His final thoughts seem to be the most curious of all.  "O, I could tell you- 279 But let it be" [5.2, 279-280] He confesses that he could say many things about what woes had befallen him, but that it would be futile at best.  I believe that this may have been Hamlet's attitude all along.  Although, at times, he felt so passionate about avenging his father's wrongful death, I believe that he may have just wanted to leave the matter alone.  Despite the horrid actions of his uncle, I think that Hamlet realized that two wrongs would never make a right.

Works Cited:

             In Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, religious piety is generally abused. Most of the ecclesiastical characters in the story are portrayed as hypocritical, deceptive, and greedy individuals.  They use religious piety to take advantage of others, in the effort to obtain some kind of earthly pleasure. I will provide examples of this, and explain how certain characters abuse religious piety, and include evidence to suggest the contrary: that not all of the pious characters in The Canterbury Tales are corrupt.

 One glaring example of religious piety being abused can be found in The Miller's Tale. Nicholas sets the carpenters faith against him, telling him that a great flood was soon approaching.  When warning the carpenter not to tell anyone about their holy secret, Nicholas says: For it is Cristes conseil that I seye, And if thou telle it man, thou art forlore.  In this passage, Nicholas claims that what he speaks is in accordance with the will of Jesus Christ.  By doing this, his revelation seems more authentic to the carpenter, which creates a heightened sense of urgency.  The carpenter is duped by Nicholas, because of the fact that he trusts in him, and believes in what he says.  In the end, Nicholas is not looking out for the well-being of the carpenter, he is only hoping to get the carpenters wife alone.  Nicholas takes advantage of the carpenters nave nature by making appeals to him through his devotion to God.  Hastou nat herd," quod Nicholas, also The sorwe of Noe with his felawshipe, Er that he myghte gete his wyf to shipe? In this passage, Nicholas puts the carpenter right up next to Noah, painting the humble carpenter to be in an identical predicament.  This shows the deceptive nature of Nicholas, because he uses holy ideals to support his own lies.  It also shows him to be a hypocrite, because while he pretends to be acting in union with Cristes conseil, he could actually care less about the carpenter.  Nicholas is only looking out for himself, he does not honestly care about the will of Christ.  He is only motivated by manipulating others to fulfill his own earthly desires.  Nicholas provides a prime example of religious piety being abused in The Canterbury Tales.

            The character of the monk provides good evidence to support this trend.  He does not care for the old ways to which he is betrothed, but instead longs for another way of life, a new way.  In the General Prologue, this monk is described in detail: The reule of Seint Maure, or of Seint Beneit, By cause that it was old and somdel streit This ilke Monk leet olde thynges pace, And heeld after the newe world the space.  This passage states that the monk did not care for the rule of Saint Maurice or Saint Benedict, because he believed it to be strict and outdated.  The old things, in this case, are the religious ideals that the monk has left behind.  The new world that fills the space in his life is the world of hunting.  Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hare Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. This passage illustrates that this monk was taken by a list for rabbit hunting, and would not miss it for anything in the world, although the doctrine of St. Benedict out against such behavior: He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen, That seith that hunters beth nat hooly men. According to the Saints document, a holy man cannot be a hunter, and vice-versa.  This monk apparently does not care for the text, because of the fact that it contrasts with what he truly desires to be doing.  He likes to hunt and he loves to eat.  Because he has allowed his appetite to consume him over time, he no longer resembles a typical monk:  He was nat pale as a forpyned goost His palfrey was as broun as is a berye.  Chaucer states that this monk was not pale, and he did not look like a ghost.  He did not reside in spiritual reflection, but lived outside, hunting and eating.  He no longer takes on the characteristics of a monk due to the fact that he no longer thinks or acts like a monk.  This character behaves selfishly, and gorges himself with lavish game.  Although he calls himself a monk, he does not have his heart set upon heavenly things, but upon food and drink: pleasures of the flesh. 

            Being vulnerable to earthly desires is a theme that does not stop with the monk.  The Summoners Tale tells the story of a friar who is also very taken by earthly temptations.  The friars profession is essentially to pray for others in a time of need.  But, what the friar actually does is prey upon others in their time of need.  The friar goes to visit his friend, Thomas, who has become ill, in an effort to try to make a profit out of a bad situation.  Although the friar claims to be completely honest in his intentions: To yelden Jhesu Crist his propre rente; To sprede his word is set al myn entente, we are later lead to believe otherwise when he warns Thomas not to trust the other friars, and scolds him for having donated to them rather than to him: What is a ferthyng worth parted in twelve?  At this point the reader inevitably has to wonder about his true intentions.  If his will is truly only to spread the word of Christ, then why does he refuse to share the money with other friars?   When Thomas begins to doubt his sincerity, the friar attempts to offer him some reassurance: Thomas, noght of youre tresor I desire As for myself, but that al oure covent To preye for yow is ay so diligent.  In this passage, the friar says that it is not Thomas treasure that he desires, but to be able to have the whole convent pray for him.  The friar claims to have only one thing in mind: helping Thomas.  But, a few moments later, the friars true intentions resurface:  "Yif me thanne of thy gold."  Ultimately, the friar is only after one thing: the gold.   He preys upon the family, using the loss of their child and Thomas illness to try to inspire them towards charity, claiming that he is a righteous man.   Although he claims to be looking out for them, it is all an act, an elaborate discourse in which he tries to sell a dying family a blessing in their time of need.  This is another perfect example of the abuse of religious piety.  If the friar truly cared for the wellbeing of Thomas and his family, he would pray for them regardless of monetary.  If he was truly concerned about him, money would not be an issue. Now Thomas, help, for seinte charitee!  And doun anon he sette him on his knee

            Another example of someone abusing ecclesiastical power in order to obtain personal riches can be found in the character of the pardoner.  This man is a fine example of how religious piety can be abused.  His very profession lies in selling fake relics, as he readily admits: To saffron with my predicacioun, And for to stire hem to devocioun. Thanne shewe I forth my longe cristal stones, Ycrammed ful of cloutes and of bones; Relikes been they, as wenen they echoon.  He states that he sells relics to those who he has stirred into devotion. Soon after, the pardoner tells the pilgrims his theme:  But shortly, myn entente I wol devyse; I preche of no thyng but for coveityse. Therfore my theme is yet, and evere was, Radix malorum est Cupiditas.  In this passage, the pardoner says that the only thing he preaches about is covetousness.  He reminds the reader that his theme will always be that greed is the root of all evil. After having read this passage, it is hard not to take the pardoner as a complete hypocrite.  He has already told us that he offers salvation through selling pardons and fake relics, and yet he preaches about covetousness, saying that greed is the root of all evil.  This man even admits to his own hypocrisy: But though myself be gilty in that synne, Yet kan I maken oother folk to twynne From avarice, and soore to repente; But that is nat my principal entente.  The pardoner readily admits that he is guilty in regards the sin of covetousness.  In this passage, he says that although he also falls victim to these same vices himself, he is able to make others turn from these ways and repent.  But that is nat my principle entente. Here, the pardoner states that although he helps people find salvation, that their repentance is not his main intention.  He is implying that he is not essentially governed by a willingness to help others, but by a desire to help himself, monetarily.  This man is perhaps the finest example of ecclesiastical corruption and the abuse of religious piety in The Canterbury Tales.  The pardoner, like Nicolas and the friar, attempts to make his intentions seem genuine by aligning himself with God.  And who so fyndeth hym out of swich fame, He wol come up and offre, on Goddes name, And I assoille him, by the auctoritee Which that by tulle ygraunted was to me.  In this passage the pardoner explains the great powers of redemption that have been vested unto him.  Although he has already said that the salvation of others is not his principle intent,  the pardoner wishes to test the strength of his con-artistry, and continues to attempt to swindle the pilgrims.  He further attempts to use piety when he comes forth with sermons about gluttony, drunkenness, and swearing.  The pardoner has previously shown himself to be hypocritical in nature, but his sermons only help to bring absolution to these assumptions.   He is already drunk, as it reveals in his prologue, he had to consume a draughte of corny ale before he was ready to tell his tale for the host.  Therefore, his is guilty of both gluttony and drunkenness, two of the things which he himself is sermonizing about.  Then he comes out with another sermon against swearing, immediately after which, he swears an oath to continue with his tale.  This action also helps to show his hypocrisy.  The pardoner is not really interested in helping other people, he is only interested in providing for himself and his desires, as he states in his prologue: I wol have moneie, wolle, chese, and whete, Al were it yeven of the povereste page, Or of the povereste wydwe in a village, Al sholde hir children sterve for famyne. Nay, I wol drynke licour of the vyne, And have a joly wenche in every toun.  In this passage, he admits that the life of luxury that he lives thrives upon the benevolence of others.  The pardoner is perhaps the finest example of hypocrisy and greed in The Canterbury Tales.   

            Although Chaucer portrays most religiously pious people in TheCanterbury Tales to be completely hypocritical, he implies that there are exceptions to nearly every rule, through the character of the parson.  The parson is described as a poor man, although he is rich in a spiritual sense.  As it says in the General Prologue, the parson sette nat his benefice to hyre.  This passage implies that he never sold his good will or deeds to others, but gave them freely.  This aspect of his character sets him apart from every other pious character that we have seen previously, because of the fact that he gives of himself freely, without expecting anything in return.  The other characters are completely motivated by selfish and earthly desires. The narrator also comments upon the parsons goodhearted nature:  A bettre preest I trowe, that nowher noon ys. The parsons character is a portrait for how piety is to be used correctly.  He did not preach in order to hide his ill-intentions, but spoke to others out of a genuine interest for their prosperity.  Unlike the other examples we have seen, the parson practices that which he preaches: "But Cristes loore, and Hise apostles twelve He taughte, but first he folwed it hymselve."

            The Canterbury Tales are timeless.  The issues that are conquered within its pages are issues that are still relevant to us more than a thousand years later.  Telemarketers and televangelists are often all that come to mind for some people when thinking about the religiously devoted.  An offering tray is synonymous with most Christians perceptions of true worship.  Although it seems that the picture which Chaucer paints is a bleak one, he does offer hope.  Through the character of the parson, he implies that despite the wicked nature of most men who claim allegiance to the holy, good people do exist in this world.  He states that even though there are many hypocritical people out there, some are really  only out for one thing:  to help others.

¹⁵ On reaching Jerusalem, Jesus entered the temple area and began driving out those who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves, ¹⁶and would not allow anyone to carry merchandise through the temple courts. ¹⁷And as he taught them, he said, "Is it not written:
   " 'My house will be called a house of prayer for all nations'? But you have made it 'a den of robbers.'"

I live with bread, like you; feel want,             

Taste grief, need friends.  Subjected thus,      

How can you say to me that I am a king?       

--Richard II

As King Richard gives himself over to despair and doubt, his claim to the throne, which many believe to be divinely granted, begins to diminish.  The belief and adherence to the doctrine of divine right by the nobles of England is all that seems to allow Richard to retain his position as king, despite his heinous actions.  As Richard grows more and more selfish and desperate, he begins to cast a shadow of doubt upon the ideal of divine right, and this ultimately leads to his demise. Although his worldly power decreases, Richards intellectual power and eloquent speech seem to increase. 

In Richard II, there is a noticeable distance between the character of Richard and the character of the king.  A sense of duty to his country and his responsibilities as a king are largely overshadowed by a desire for personal gain in Richards character.  Although the king is believed to be appointed by God, what if he abuses this power for his own personal advancement?  King Richards vices lead to his downfall.  The murder of Thomas of Woodstock, the exile of Mowbray and Bolingbroke, the preemptive seizure of John of Gaunts property and finances, and the unfair taxation of his countrymen to fund a war with the Irish are ultimately the cause of Richards deposition.  Even though the king abuses his power, certain characters stand fast to the ideal of divine right, and are wary to question Richards sovereignty. 

In Act 1, Scene 2, John of Gaunt expresses his difficulty in confronting the situation: Gods is the quarrel; for Gods substitute, 37 His deputy anointed in his sight, 38 Hath caused his death; the which if wrongfully, Let heaven revenge, for I may never lift an angry arm against his minister.  This passage illustrates just how deeply some people were affected by the idea of divine right.  John of Gaunt states that if Richard, the divinely appointed king, was behind the murder, that God is the only one who can justly revenge the crime.   Here, John of Gaunt reveals that even if Richard had planned the death of his own family member, he would not raise an angry arm against him, because of the fact that he believes that he would be going up against Gods own deputy.

            Another example of a character who struggles with the ideal of divine right is the Duke of York.  In Act 3, Scene 3, he warns Bolingbroke not to take his rebellion too far, reminding him about Richards divine right to rule: Take not, good cousin, further than you should, 16 Lest you mistake the heavens are over are heads. 17 This passage is another fine display of how deeply people subscribed to the idea of divine right.  Here, the Duke of York implies that if Bolingbroke exceeds his bounds, he will disobey Gods will by doing so.  Although he seems to wholeheartedly subscribe to the notion of divine right in the previous passage, the Duke of York does have his doubts about Richards choices as a ruler.  Earlier on in the play, in Act 2, Scene 1, the Duke scolds Richard for his behavior as king: 

How long shall I be patient?  Ah, how long 164 Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong? 165 Not Gloucesters death, nor Herefords banishment, 166 Nor Gaunts rebukes, nor Englands private wrongs, 167 Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke 168 About his marriage, nor my own disgrace, 169 Have ever made me sour my patient cheek[.] 200  

This passage illustrates the difficulties many of these characters were dealing with.  Even though Richard had wronged their entire family, and committed horribly selfish and malicious acts, these characters still hold fast to their loyalty.  They are very cautious and patient in dealing with such matters.  In Act 1, Scene 2, the Duchess of Gloucester warns John of Gaunt against such patience: Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is despair. 29 In suffring thus thy brother to be slaughtered 30 Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life 31 Teaching stern murder how to murder thee. 32 That which in mean men we entitle patience 33 Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts. 34 In this passage, the Duchess states that in ignoring this crime, John of Gaunt will show the murderer how to kill him. She believes that if this murder goes unpunished, that nothing will stop Richard from doing it again.  The Duchess states that what we call patience, in the case of dealing with cruel men, is actually just fear.  She believes that although Gaunt claims that he wishes to be patient and wait it out, that his patience is actually just a form of cowardice, and a way to evade confronting the situation at hand.  In the end, both John of Gaunt and the Duke of York concede, realizing that although Richard was the king, it did not excuse his irresponsible and careless actions, and they consequentially decide to join up with Bolingbroke.

In Act 3, Scene 2, Richard states that Not all the water in the rough rude sea 50 Can wash the balm from an anointed king. 51 The breath of worldly men cannot depose 52 The deputy elected by the Lord. 53 Here, the king speaks with conviction.  He does not have any doubts about his victory in putting down Bolingbrokes rebellion, due to his divine right to the throne.  Richard feels that he is being guarded by angels, and that heaven protects his position as the king from such lowly rebels.  But, just a bit later in the very same scene, when Scrope confesses to Richard that a few of his men have been killed, and that his army has sided with Bolingbrokes forces, Richard reacts with a pitiful and tragic speech:  For Gods sake, let us sit upon the ground, 151 And tell sad stories of the death of kings-- 152 In this passage, Richard shows a highly vulnerable side of himself: a side that is given to despair, fear, and doubt.  In this manner, Richard does not behave like a king.  He does not speak with conviction, nor does he stand his ground.  Instead, Richard, the lion, merely cowers with fear in the face of his enemy.  His behavior directly affects the way that he is viewed as a character.  When Richard acts increasingly erratic, irresponsible, and cowardly, it becomes difficult to respect him and see him as a king and a figure of high standing and nobility, despite the fact that he is believed to be divinely appointed.  Through his repeated blunders, he grows into a new identity that bears a face which seems to be more human than divine. Richard even begins to doubt in his own divine protection, and begins to view his life as a tragic fate from which there is no escape.  

Whenever there is any doubt about his right to rule, there is always someone there to pick the king back up, dust him off, and to remind him that he is the divinely appointed king.  In Act 3, Scene 2, when Richard begins to despair over the odds of putting down the rebellion, the Bishop of Carlisle attempts to comfort him:  Fear not, my lord.  That power that made you king 27 Hath power to keep you king in spite of all. 28 Here, the Bishop of Carlisle reassures Richard by saying that God will protect his sovereignty.  He implies that because it was God that made Richard the king, it can be deduced that God will protect his investment.

In Act 3, Scene 3, Richard uses the idea of divine right to dissuade the rebels:  [W]e are barren and bereft of friends, 83 Yet know my master, God omnipotent, 84 Is mustering in his clouds on our behalf 85 Armies of pestilence; and they shall strike[.] 86   In this passage, it is evident how deeply Richard himself subscribes to the notion of his divine right to sovereignty.  Realizing that the odds are against him, he uses these ideas as propaganda, one last effort to try to win back the loyalty of his subjects through attempting to put the fear of God into them. 

Over time, Richards power is stripped from him.  He unwillingly gives his throne up to Bolingbroke in Act 4, Scene 1:  With mine own tears I wash away my balm, 197 With mine own hands I give away my crown, 198 With mine own tongue deny my sacred state. 199 In this passage, Richard states that he is denying his sacred state, or his divine right to rule.  This event concludes Richards reign as king, but despite his sudden decrease in worldly power, his character is no less contemplative or imaginative.  In fact, Richard begins to lament his despair through increasingly beautiful and eloquent language. 

During his soliloquy, found in Act 5, Scene 5, Richard confronts the difficulties of being so isolated: My brain Ill prove the female to my soul, 6 My soul the father and these two beget 7 A generation of still-breeding thoughts; 8 And these same thoughts people this little world 9 In this scene, Richard is able to populate his cell simply with the power of his imagination.  He imagines that his thoughts are all the company he needs in his prison.  It seems that when Richard has hit rock bottom in a worldly sense, he has reached new heights in a poetic and intellectual sense.  He is able to envision a whole world of thoughts, as people, living in a world that is populated by his own thoughts. 

In a similar scenario, when Bolingbroke is banished, John of Gaunt suggests that he should try to imagine that he is on a holiday.  In Act 1, Scene 3, John recommends that Bolingbroke should [c]all it a travel that thou takst for pleasure. 251 Bolingbroke does not agree, and offers a rebuttal to his fathers statement:

O, who can hold a fire in his hand 257 By thinking on the frosty Caucasas, 258 Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite 259 By bare imagination of a feast 260 Or wallow naked in December snow 601 By thinking on fantastic summers heat? 602 O no, the apprehension of the good 603 Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.  604 Fell sorrows tooth doth never rankle more 605 Than when he bites, but lanceth not the sore. 606

In this passage, Bolingbroke implies that attempting to imagine the presence such things only makes their absence seem more intensified.  He states that he would rather focus upon the harsh reality of matters than attempt to dilute them with imagination.  Bolingbrokes ideas directly contrast those of Richard.  Bolingbroke would rather face his problems head on, while Richard tries desperately to envision his in a different light.   Although Bolingbroke appears to be upfront and honest, he shows himself to be a hypocrite when he kills Richard.  His murderous actions parallel the very actions which started the play, and a perfect circle is formed. 

I looked up from the spedometer, feeling momentarily comfortable.  Glancing at my brother, I asked:

            “Did we lose ‘em?”

            “I think so,” he said, as he spun his head around to look back at the road behind us. Speeding up, I checked the rear-view mirror.   There was no sign of them.  It was just like in the movies, I thought to myself, except in real life. 

            “There they are!” He exclaimed, with fear in his voice.

            I drove up and down the streets like a madman, but it was no use: they were right on my tail.  We did not know the reason why they chased after us, but what we did know is that they didn’t want to play nice.  After a half an hour of pursuit, I pulled off onto a dusty old county road and put it in park.  Locking the doors, I looked at my brother, and he at me, and we silently reassured each other that we were ready for whatever came.

            The two men stepped out of their vehicle.  One was very large, wearing a t-shirt with cutoff sleeves to show the true grandiosity of his machismo, which existed almost exclusively in his eighteen-inch biceps.  He was a true juggernaut.  His tiny eyes sank deep into the frame of his enormous face. As he walked towards my car, he cracked his knuckles.  Though his accomplice was much smaller in physical stature, his ignorance far exceeded that of his juggernaut friend.  He was mean, and due to being the weaker of the two; he made up in cruelty what he lacked in size. The short one came to the passenger side window, and the muscle bound lunatic came to mine.  Almost simultaneously, my brother and I rolled down our windows, stopping at a few inches, as not to let them get too close.  The little one spoke first. 

            “Why were you guys running from us?” He inquired in a serious tone.

            “Why were you guys chasing us?” I replied.

            “Because one of you two grabbed my girlfriend’s ass, that’s why,” quoth the juggernaut.

            “And who might she be?” I asked, genuinely confused. 

            “Sarah Palmer.”  He answered.          

            I looked at my brother, and he looked at me.  Neither of us knew this girl, nor did her name ring even the smallest bell within the chapel of our remembrance.  I realized that this was a setup, but men like this don’t exactly believe in democracy, or in handling things civilly. 

            “I hate to break it to you bro, but we’ve never even met your girlfriend,” I confessed, looking first at the juggernaut, and then at his minion. A few seconds passed, and I felt like I could have easily inserted the lives of ten men in the space of that single, excruciating moment.  Neither of them knew what to say.  Just then, the little one decided that the debate about this issue was closed, and handled the situation the only way that he knew how. 

            “That’s it, enough talk,” He said.  Then he cast his hand in through the passenger side window, grabbed my brother’s throat, and began choking him.  As he fought to get the boy’s hand away, I threw the car in drive and slammed on the gas pedal.   I looked over and saw the boy trying desperately to keep up with the car.  When I yanked the wheel to the left in preparation for a U-turn, my brother let go of the boy’s hand, sending him rolling and spinning along the gravel road. 

            As I pulled back onto the highway, I looked back through my rear-view mirror.  Through the dust, I could barely see the two of them.  They were running towards the car, this time far more furious than before.  Scrambling to get in, they slammed their doors, violently, and sped off.  But they would not catch us, not tonight. 

Snow falls as I stare out of my window.  The room is old, and full of memory.  I vividly remember looking out that window, ten years ago. 

            In the spring of 1996, at the height of our angsty teenage rebellion, my brother and I were assigned a research paper that would make up half of the final grade in our political science class.  We spent most of our time skateboarding, listening to heavy metal, and chasing after girls.  Despite the affect that this paper could have on our grades, neither of us seemed to feel that it stacked up to much in the broader scheme of things, and thus, it did not make its way onto our very short list of priorities.  Life was good; we were carefree and did not have a fear in the world.  But just then, in my routine of adolescent and pubescent apathy, a tree fell into my path of careless self-destruction.

            I was in Algebra class when it happened.  An ominous voice came from the loudspeaker, rising above the clamor of the young, exuberant students. 

            “Mrs. Swenor, could you please send Jason Marietti to the principles office? Thank you.”

            Blushing, I grabbed my books and proceeded to walk out of the room.  As I closed the large, wooden door, I was overcome by pain. A sharp sensation came from my neck, and crippled me, making all further movement impossible.  My book bag fell from my hand, and I heard a voice behind me.

            “It’s time for some tough love, boys. If you won’t listen to your mother, you WILL listen to me.”            It was my father.  He pulled us out of school that day to begin work on our essays, starting immediately.

            He drove us to his house, and said nothing for the entire ride. When we arrived, he proceeded to put a lock hitch on the bedroom door.  My brother and I looked at each other in silence, knowing that we were about to become prisoners.  As he tightened the last screw, he smiled at us. 

            “Get to writing, boys. I’ll have dinner on the table for you at eight.”  He said, closing the door and clicking the padlock shut. 

            At first, we imagined that we would rebel.  We thought that we would refuse to write anything.  But, after nearly an hour of whispered conversation, my brother and I had deduced that he would not give us dinner if we had not at least started on our papers.  And thus, we began to write. 

            After two days of doing nothing but writing, sleeping, and eating, we asked him if we could go and hang out with our friends for a bit. 

            “Are your papers done?”

            We shamefully answered: “No.”

            That afternoon, our friend Brad came, yelling up to the window to inquire if we could come and buzz the gut.

            “We can’t come out, he’s got us locked in here until we’re done.” 

            “That sucks,” Brad exclaimed. 

            I stared out of that window as he drove away, bitter about many things, but mostly the fact that I knew it was ultimately my own fault that I was stuck in that room.  I began to work furiously, and by the following night, we had both finished our papers.

            Ten years after submitting that paper, my brother and I moved into that house, the house of our fathers. The walls of that old room had been severely damaged, and the wood was warped and bowed.  Without speaking, we began tearing the walls down.  Within minutes, the walls were gone.  I began to put up new walls over the next few months, using lengths of old cedar that I had found in the basement.  Soon I was out of lumber, and the walls were only partially finished.  I moved a desk into the room, along with a bookshelf. I stare out the window, and remember the past.  I stare at these partially finished walls.  Some of it looking fresh and new, and the rest looking ancient, distinguished in its antiquity.  I feel centered when writing in a room with this kind of history.  When I sit down at my desk, there is a special focus I am able to attain.  We were so eager to tear those walls down.  Since removing them, I cannot recall a desire to replace them. This unfinished room has some subconscious effect on me.  Sometimes I imagine that my door is still locked, that I am still a prisoner to my father, to my mother, to the world, to myself, to my unfinished work in this world. 

He forced his chapped hands further into his pockets.  His fingertips had been permanently seared and scarred from years of cooking.  Cooking was an occupation of his, a trade he had learned in order to survive.  These fingers had a shine to them, and fingerprints that were barely visible.  With blue eyes, he looked up at a gray sky, and wondered when he would see the sun again.  The wind picked up.  His dirty blonde hair, which had been tucked neatly behind his ears, was now caught by the breeze, and blew freely.  His dog ran beside him, a black lab.  She looked up with an expression of loyalty which could barely be captured by words, then looked back to the north, pointing out a crow that had no fear of winter.  They could see the whole town from up on that knob.  Nature was his true home, and he felt alienated when in the city.  He was short in stature, just like his mother and father.  Picking up a shovel, he began his day.  It would take at least an hour to get out of the driveway.  He wondered when the plows would finally make it to the side streets.  As he threw snow over his shoulder, he saw his own reflection in the window of his house.  This house was once his father’s and his father’s before him.  He dreamed of making their name more glorious, of being a good man, a gentleman.  He wondered what that meant, and if his dreams would change.  He tattooed ideas onto his body, so that certain parts of him would always stay the same.  His twin brother had now joined him in the wintry wilderness. They shared a look, but no words, for none were necessary.  They worked as a team, both pushing snow scoops.  He pondered how he was different from his identical twin.  He thought that even though most of their physical and mental characteristics were the same, that they were two very different people.  But as much as they were different, they were alike, and vice versa. They were born and raised in this small town.  Hard work was a way of life that was embraced by their ancestors and passed down as the staple of their table.  They shoveled on. 

She hasn’t been gone that long.  I believe in her.  She probably just went out with her sister again, that's all.

            Patrick sits looking out the window of his cramped, suburban apartment.  The clock on the wall reads 1:42 A.M. He crosses his legs, right over left, as he is accustomed to.  Lighting a cigarette, he winces as a small cloud of smoke enters his eyes, stinging them.  He leans forward.  He looks at the clock.  Thoughtlessly scanning a copy of The New Yorker, he sits back, folding his legs again, this time with the left over the right.  A moment of heavy silence passes.  Patrick picks up the phone, and dials feverishly.

            No answer.  He leaves a message.

            “This is Pat, gimme a call me back when you get this.”

            Where could she be?  What could she be doing?

            A lone cotton filter lies burning in the ashtray.  He looks to the clock. 1:45 A.M. He lights another.  His mind is soon overrun with nostalgia and sentiment, and he reflects.

            I was younger then, and had much to learn.   She loves me.  I am sure of that. 

He remembers that day in the ambulance.  The confusion of it all was sufficient to make anyone weak, no matter how strong their resolve.

            Consciousness came suddenly.  Pain was all I was aware of.

Shards of glass were in my hair, and my hands were badly cut. There was blood on the road.  I wondered if it was my own.  It was then that fear took me, and I stirred. 

            An EMT stood above me, saying: “Please lay still, Sir.  You’ve been in a bad accident, and it’s best if you stay there.” 

            Patrick jumped up, without thought or consideration for consequence.

            “Where is she?”  He asked. 

            “Sir, you may be badly injured!” The EMT exclaimed. 

            Patrick ran to a nearby ambulance and pulled open the back door.  He had found her.   She looked up, with tears in her eyes. 

            “Patrick!”

            “Christine.” 

            “I love you,” she said.

            She had a broken hip, and was bleeding badly from the left side of her abdomen. She took his hand.  For the first time, he felt true love.  The emergency workers closed the door, and the ambulance drove away. 

            “I love you too.” He said. 

            Cracking a brew, he grows increasingly calm.  He turns on the television set and reclines in his seat, continuing to convince himself that whatever force that is keeping her out at such an odd hour could not change their bond, and his anxiety diminishes.

            The phone rings.

            Scrambling to get to the phone, he knocks the contents of the coffee table unto the floor. 

            “Hello?”

            “Hello, Patrick, it’s me...” 

            “I’m just calling to let you know that I went out with my sister after work this evening, and that you don’t need to wait up for me.”

I choose to begin today by posing a simple question. Who was Mary Polkinghorne?

Every single one of us has a different answer to this question.  To some of you, she was a mother.  To some of you she was a grandmother, or a great-grandmother. To some of you, she was a friend, or even an acquaintance.  Though all of us may have known her in different ways, I suspect that if we sat and talked with each other for awhile, comparing our stories and our various memories of her— we would all find one common thread.  In the end we would all discover one distinct similarity: She was always there when we needed her.  She always took us in, took us under her wings.   She gave us shelter.  She gave us advice.  She gave us the strength that we needed to face the day.  Mary taught us all valuable life lessons. 

May we remember those lessons, and never leave them behind.  May we remind ourselves of them every single day of our lives. May we teach our children the kind of neighborly love that she taught to all of us.  May we all let go of our old grudges today.  May we walk out of here and live in her legacy, that we may discover unconditional love, and show it to each other, as she showed it to us. 

Today we become fully aware of life, not death.  The greatest tragedy in life does not lie in the grave.  The greatest tragedy of life lies in forgetting, and in being forgotten.  Therefore, may we all take an oath amongst us now to always remember her name, an oath never to forget her, or to forget the gifts that she bestowed upon us all.  Today is not about death. Today we acknowledge life. May we accept that the body is frail, grows old, and dies, but choose not to dwell on the frailty of the flesh— and instead let us turn our thoughts to the hope that she may live on forever through her legacy and be resurrected by the memories that we have of her. Memory, so long as we can hold onto it, transcends death, and eludes time. By the sacrifice of Our Lord Jesus Christ, she can live on forever.

If I had but one sentence to illustrate what Mary Polkinghorne taught me, it would be this:

“Be there for each another, no matter what.”

I will conclude with a reading from the famous Irish prayer, “St Patrick’s Breastplate.”

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through the belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness
Of the Creator of Creation.

I arise today
Through the strength of Christ's birth with his baptism,
Through the strength of his crucifixion with his burial,
Through the strength of his resurrection with his ascension,
Through the strength of his descent for the judgment of Doom.

I arise today
Through the strength of the love Cherubim,
In obedience of angels,
In the service of archangels,
In hope of resurrection to meet with reward,
In prayers of patriarchs,
In predictions of prophets,
In preaching of apostles,
In faith of confessors,
In innocence of holy virgins,
In deeds of righteous men.

I arise today
Through the strength of heaven:
Light of sun,
Radiance of moon,
Splendor of fire,
Speed of lightning,
Swiftness of wind,
Depth of sea,
Stability of earth,
Firmness of rock.

I arise today
Through God's strength to pilot me:
God's might to uphold me,
God's wisdom to guide me,
God's eye to look before me,
God's ear to hear me,
God's word to speak for me,
God's hand to guard me,
God's way to lie before me,
God's shield to protect me,
God's host to save me
From snares of devils,
From temptations of vices,
From everyone who shall wish me ill,
Afar and anear,
Alone and in multitude.

Christ to shield me today
Against poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against wounding,
So that there may come to me abundance of reward.
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness,
Of the Creator of Creation.

May Christ be with her now. AMEN.

Contents:

1.  Making Sense of Words
2.  Tired
3.  Blind Hindsight
4.  Good Evening!
5.  Epiphany
6.  In the Garden
7.  The Human Need for Catastrophe
8.  The Birthplace of Repentance
9.  A Stranger's Room
10.  Incarceration (12/18/02)
11.  Momento de Silencia
12.  Women
13.  Illuminati Informato
14.  A Guide to Hypnosis
15.  20,000 Leagues Beneath the Sea
16.  The River
17.  Notion: A Lesson in Surgery, A Processus in Vision Vitiation
18.  Descent
19.  A Lifetime Sentence Inside the Panopticon
20.  Nino, Padre, Abuelo
21.  Acer Negundo
22.  Touch
23.  Passion With Reason
24.  Birth of a Hero
25.  Face Two Face
26.  Daze
27.  Concatenation
28.  Sleep
29.  Reverse Chronology
30.  Pinnacle

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Making Sense of Words

What is love?
Love gives motive for hunt.
The search for prize stock
Which keeps the ground well trodden.
"Beautiful morning isn't it?"

I'm a man
on a bench
with loneliness.
Embracing this.
I float along
carelessly.
I miss thee
endlessly.

Doubt
Hope
Doubt
Hope.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Tired

19 degrees
Who knows what I mean,
when I don't know what I need?
I'm sorry.
I wasn't there
But neither were you.
No one is right,
we were both wrong.
What are these words accomplishing?
Nothing.
I'm writing just to hear myself think
just to hide the pain away.
Like I have done
yesterday
and the day
before that.
I have denied
I have sinned
You have sinned
And all is lost,
yet
Life goes on.
forgotten is how I feel.
forgotten is how they must feel.
It's been so long I forgot what really happened.
All is worthless
All is gone.
How can I go on
and know I'll never know?

Help us to forgive sincerely
Help us to see the truth more clearly
Help us love like you did.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Blind Hindsight

Have I always been alone?
Or were you following me?
So near, and I've never known.
So close, and yet I've never seen.
I always forget the ones who've gone.
It's my way of remembering just what I please.
But there is always a new day with the dawn.
Wounds in my back still bleeding profusely.
Dying slowly, slowly dying.
I'm renting a body,
and buying my time.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Good Evening!

Come one
Come all
Brothers-
Sisters-
Only
the
Lonely
truly know me.

Leave convention
at the door.
Check your baggage
like you check your coat.
Nothing matters tonight
Nothing more
than a dream
is necessary
to BE.
To change everybody,
everything.

Witness to the only true God may He bless the little ones.

I have not seen, but still believe.
in hope,
I am breaking the norm,
and yet-
Still a sheep.
( unique in this bleak )

Uni
verse.

a moment of warmth
held within
a moment of strength
walking against
the icy winter wind.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Epiphany

See to shining sea
Love is blind by design.
Blindfold mankind,
we need not see
to use the eye
of our minds.
I have seen
tragedy
travesty
deceit
and still
believe.
Hope
resides
inside
me.
Dormant,
barely
breathing but
the heart still
beats
and bleeds
patiently.
Unknowing-
Unsuspecting-
While
all the while
waiting
only
to be awakened.
With a kiss...
emptiness is
dissipated.
The illusion
is over
again.
The tide
is coming in.

Dawn.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

In The Garden

Walking naked
in the woods
where will you go?
He calls out
"Where are you?"
As if He doesn't know.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The Human Need for Catastrophe

An earthquake is what it would take
to make us love
to make us see the good
in the world
the human need for catastrophe
in live
technicolor
video feed.
Showing our similarities
through unity
and peace.
Unique—
until we begin to bleed.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The Birthplace of Repentance

Forced remorse
is meaningless.
Like forced words,
their place of origin
is incorrect.
Therefore
the conviction,
the connotation,
and
the detonation
are thereby
insincere.
based on motivation,
based on place of birth.
I lost my way
in translation
what am I?
End of transmission-
Communication: Non-Contagious.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

A Stranger's Room

quiet
keep your mouth shut
sewn closed
predisposed
subhuman
more
than just skin
I'm in.
nightmares
making their way
every day
I'm dreaming
the same dream
over
and over
again.
"You will never go anywhere,
all you ever do is sit
and stare."
You will never see
what this means to me.
I can't tell the difference
between
what's a dream,
and what's reality.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Incarceration (12/18/02)

Lust causes clouded vision.
Warning:
this form of slavery
can seem
so blissfully intriguing.
Like the way
I speak
of my own
anti-gravity.
One is enough
to shift the course
of the sun.
But without the son,
revolution
will never be won.
One with a word-
I long
to be a slave
to everything.
Every time
I go against
my instincts,
I grow further from me.
Only I know
what I need.
Only I know
the struggles
and plagues
of my disease.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Momento de Silencia

awkward silence
may never exist
unless we permit it
to become awkward
in our minds.
why do we feel the need
to try to ignore
the loneliness
and sanctity
which silence brings?
why speak
merely to cover
the long pause?
Simple grandiosity
contained
and existing within
a moment of silence.
Very subtly
and humbly
acknowledging
this unspoken
and ambiguous
agreement and treaty.
The true feeling
of complete honesty-
For I feel no need to speak
until I find the right words to say.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Women

i WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND A SINGLE ONE.
IF ONE DAY BY SOME MIRACLE i SAY THAT i DO
REMIND me i SAID THIS
AND CALL me A FOOL.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Illuminati Informato

Hypocrites give the best advice.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

A Guide to Hypnosis

inside honor.
teach me how to be an honorable man, my friend.
lessons learned inside my head.
old memories
and points of viewing
are like archived files.
step to the side,
let it unfold
let it ride
like an olde time story
late at night.
"I'm counting down now."
most of the time
only I know what I need.
a dominant mode of thought
comes as a wave
picks you up, makes you feel,
then overtakes you.
now, try to remember who you were
two days ago...
a gentleman and a scholar.
phrases uttered by mad men
in an attempt to bid flattery
and to this very day
I do not know
if it was the look in his eye
or the potency of heart
which his presence requested
that made me accept
his invitation.
look long and deep
to the depths
undiscovered.
Why am I such a coward
sometimes
I try
to walk on stilts
and when I fall
to the ground
it was as if I never stood up
at all.
Go to sleep,
my son,
fall into hypnosis
and when you wake up,
Rise.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

20,000 Leagues Beneath the Sea

technological ways
of measurement.
But how to measure?
or what?
many questions go unanswered,
but I drive on.
Ignoring the signs,
nearing collision,
i look to the road ahead.
it's pure instinct
that steers us
but it is desire
which fills this blood bank gas tank.
still wandering on
looking left to right
green, go, gas.
still surviving,
but wasting time
all the time.
downhill or uphill?
I wish I wasn't driving sometimes,
but you can't help me there.
If we ever do happen to uncover
what it is which we set out for,
and sought to discover,
more power to us, right?
Answers seem so beautiful,
and truth is as air to newborn lungs.
On the other hand,
poor examples left behind
will leave a trail
stained by blue blood.
beware!
man will dictate
and give birth to stereotype.
differences are what makes you
human.
what things!
what precious things we find
at the bed of the ocean
20,000 leagues beneath the sea.
mystery
proving once again
to be an iceberg
most of which
cannot be seen.
return to shore, mate!
no treasure will be found here,
we are digging too deep,
and for fool's gold,
truth be told.
the truth will not find you-
not in this world.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The River

Memories left inside,
Like splinters hard to reach
With clumbsy fingers.
One must take more caution,
Dispatching a careful eye
With which to remove debris.
I cannot bear to do this alone,
Won't you pull it out for me?
Wounded-- scarred in the most tender of places,
Deeply and most profoundly affected was
The left portion of my torso, just below my chest.
Diagnosis: Post Mortem Loneliness.

Rejuvenation of severed limbs.
Extremities once thought lost,
But which had merely disappeared from view.
Like starfish, we make
And remake
Ourselves. (If necessary.)
Parts of us die,
Ascend toward the sky,
Turn round,
Dip, turn,
And jive-
Before ultimately returning to the place from whence they arrived.

Lest we forget the tears of Ohan and Choemon,
As In death, the debt we owe
Simply for each others' company,
Your very breath,
Is a miracle
And comes clear
And close
To the eye
As for close examination.
Accompany me, to the river.
You need not be a good swimmer.

Like Juliet and Romeo,
We are isolated, separated,
Not only from those that we know,
But transcending the space between our bodies also.
Our barriers cannot be touched,
They are intangible, invisible,
But with strength, undeniable.
Time is on our side if we choose to abide.
The other's flaws, the others temptations,
The past which has led us to this present.
Battered, bruised, but with smiles none-the-less,
We shall prevail, stronger in the end.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Notion: A Lesson in Surgery, A Processus in Vision Vitiation

[VERY VIRULENT: USE WITH CAUTION.]

Most likely if you're reading this

You shouldn't be.

I wouldn't be

Pointing fingers at me

I am not the only one

Who sins imperfectly

Or practices some form

Of private, personal perfidy.

All of which end in no joy for anybody.

We're all ugly

Empty

Incomplete.

Satisfied?

Bullshit.

You're the lesser,

I'm less than me.

Stop reading.

Don't reply.

Don't think of me for the rest of your life

And you will be just fine.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Descent

How long must I strive to find the means to mine end?

O body, within which life and death are married,

Where are dreams bourne and where is truth buried?

These scars will not mend, and although I know the risk of infection

I cannot stop myself from itching and scratching at them.

Who now, who is left to argue? I take another unwilling adversary,

Lead by the demons at war inside of me.

Humans! Too concerned with climbing to consider to descend.

I take great pains just to take great pains.

But do this and come back again:

Transform water into wine, and then into blood.

And then turn it back into water again, and not just for your friends.

Learn from your mistakes, love thine enemies, and suffer in the name of change.

No tombstone for this nameless man, a dirty asphodel sprouts in the mud.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

A Lifetime Sentence Inside the Panopticon

the truth is,
very few people in this world genuinely care
what i think or how i feel,
and the rest either pretend to,
or show no effort at all.  
Let's be simple. 
I'm a joke, we're all joking.
Seemed pretty real to me. 
People come along,
take what they want,
and then leave.
I hate everything, and yet I love this disease.
I want to try so hard, 2 days in a month. 
The rest of the time I just feel like giving up.
no one knows. 
no one can even understand. 
You say "i understand," 
i say, "oh no, you can't." 
If you think you know, you don't know. 
Life is like God, or death-
the only way we can meet our maker is to actually die. 
Sure, people have near-death experiences,
and they see white light. 
What about the rest of us,
who feel the unrelenting eye of God
beating down on us
the rest of the time?
I cry out, I scream out:
"I AM A SINNER." 
I don't know if i feel bad or not,
all i feel is life coursing my body,
and this is not a shell, but a shell it is! 
I can not escape this cell until my death. 
Life sentence
Write and wrong decisions will make themselves evident.
(or more opaque, depending on perception.)  
crazy
always crazy
going nowhere
because i'm already there. 
I hate myself,
I hate you for knowing why I hate myself,
and feeling mutually disgusted in possessing such information. 
Drive the sword deep into my chest,
at least that way i'll see it coming;
never call anyone a friend. 
Either call them family or enemy,
because such ambiguity only causes misery. 
Don't beat around the bush.
You call me a joke, you think i'm joking. 
I hate you, so,
it doesn't matter to me. 
But apparently it does matter;
somehow, some way, to someone. 
Welcome to my world.
2 days and a month,
that's how long I would linger in your minds after I died.
2 months, that's how long it took you to fall in love.
it's your own fault for having a heart, not mine;
I tore mine out long ago, unconsciously, in a dream. 
and I don't know myself any better then you know yourself,
for we are all just fish in a bowl
pretending to have an identity of our own. 
But do we, really? 
I'm a joke, you're a joke,
we all could do more. 
But we know we're being watched,
sometimes that makes us realize what we are. 
This, in turn, makes us wonder about why we should even try. 
"wishin i could go back in time."  
But why try, when i wouldn't fix a thing anyway. 
We always think
that the golden days are behind us
instead of in front of us. 
We love driving, driving is fun
but it gets old after some time. 
"You don't know how i feel," or do you? 
Is that what I am afraid of? 
I fear that someone will see me and accept me for how I am. 
This could curtail all change. 
I don't know why i am bothering with this. 
I am attempting, weakly and in vain, to express the ineffable. 
Teaching tao to a two year old. 
stupid poseurs, phonies, pretenders. 
Who are you to dispute me? 
human beings..., aren't we're all equal? 
Kill us by ice, or fire, both are fair, as Frost once said. 
I want to become a dentist, so i can be a master of extraction. 

God, please kill us all
painfully.
no one knows how i feel. 
You would love to say that you could relate,
but you have probably lied to me too,
just to try to relate. 
my life is not your life,
so just stop. 
You're dishonoring yourself by even trying.
I am lost, I am gone,
I am too far away for you to reach me.
Let me go, let me die alone.  
remembering the times i used to have, and i think,...
my life wasn't always this bad. 
what have I done? 
apparently nothing. 
I LOVE TO TAKE EVERYTHING FOR GRANTED,
I am human. 
I have no heroes. 
I have only foes who know not why they hate. 
I ask you, I smash your face... do you not bleed?
You smash mine, and you find the same heart beating
going on and on,
even when we wish for it to end.
Stop watching me die! 
I am ashamed of what I've become
I just want to be who i was.
With this armor, I can resist your slings and arrows. 
but, I cannot move. 
I cannot go anywhere. 
I Stare back, despite the pain,
at the center of it all. 
I wonder,
I wonder
 if the warden is watching me now.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Nino, Padre, Abuelo

what happens to men when they die? why am i thinking about this so much and not just writing, typing, but finding nothing.  I'm not doing this for them, i'm doing this for myself.  I am just writing, smoking in my grandfather's house.  It hurt so much that day when she told me that I would be just like him.  It was not the first time I'd heard that.  I have many such memories; of the lot of them I am fond of none. 

High School graduation party:

Look at him! Look at the way he's dressed, what a disgrace!

I wondered then, how they could say such things when he was far prouder of having nothing than they were of having luxury.  Still I bore it, and did not say a word.

Musicians to our souls we swore we were, or we would be, if we were given the chance some fateful day.  The right stage, the right record, the right song, still, ignoring the point, and painfully taking the theme for granted.  Every song is the right song.  I don't know how the rest of the world does it but when I write something, it's because it means something to me.  Without that, there is no sense wasting in words.

"you're going to be just like him, Hero: point Zero"

Burn these words unto me
so that i may never forget them
because when passion dies
we have nothing to live for anymore.

forget i said anything.
knocked his teeth out.
another time
damn near.

our grandfather
stern,
picked us up.
we rode east on North,
1/2 a mile later,
he congratulated the victor.

such beginnings.  of love  of love
I remember love
pain in my back
never expecting

killing to appease
rained on
two umrellas
i have none.

who are you

road
a long road
i know where it goes.

hours
w/division street
i could always see the Cross
before i went to sleep.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Acer Negundo

Misdirection knows me well my fellow friend.

I sit here pondering what I do not know.

I am scared, and so I stay in

Wandering.

My mind is slow

What is left of me

After all that has happened?

"Learn your lessons. Move on,"

Burning.

I did not believe my own words.     

-------------------------------------------------------

touch

in fat you ate.
–verb (used with object)

-------------------------------------------------------------------- 

I lie

But never to you.

I lay still,

But not alone-

For my thoughts lie with you.

Just as my conscious soul was exposed,

You said "alas, two roads!"

I digressed as a fatuous hope arose,

Fleeted fast from a fearful realization

Hidden from plain sight.

I know where one road leads.

Off to folly, infatuation, and misinterpreted means.

And though I know the end of that road well,

It is the beginning that has so often hexed me with its spell.

To have a root,

A name,

An identity

Amidst a world of such cookie-cutter conformity

and careless, cold impersonality

Is to rescue self from treason,

and to protect the soul by sword and shield.

This is how I recognized you, and you me;

Among a sea of seemingly similar beings.

And as this rose blooms out of season,

It displaces disillusionment with reason.

A reason!

That is the difference.

As profundity and passion

Become one with reality,

Rationality replaces predilection.

I know only one road, one path, one way.

My focus will not falter,

And I have not been led astray.

Not by illusion,

Not by imagery,

Nor by any means of trickery

Have I been duped to believe

All that I hear subconsciously.

I hear only that which your eyes tell me.

I see only that which your mouth shows me.

Birth of a Hero

Seven years later
0.0
The birthplace of a conception
the meaning of a word
"hero."

envisioning my goodbyes
instead of devising more direct ways of saying "hi."
and by the way,
I don't know if I've ever told you this
but I love you.
Fixated only on myself
while everyone around me dies
one day at a time,
instead of turning this negative to positive.
Instead of using this,
the knowledge
to grow closer,
to see our time with each other
for the blessing that it is.
I ask of myself a question:
"Why try, when few care
and inevitably, you will die?"

And I answer:
I live
but not to die.
I sleep,
not not to dream.

WHY?

To walk in his name
to be strong
to be valiant,
be a gentleman, be a scholar, "walk like a man."
To stand up tall
like I know I can.
Strong in the face
of the wind, of the world
like your father;
in his image
in his honor.

Time has come
[to face hate]
to know love,
[to face sin]
to know God.

To develop a true understanding of life,
you must know death
as a close personal friend.

Learn, then, to view this cross

Who ties me down?
What leads me around?

She watches traffic
as it passes,
and I gaze into my past.
She looks flushed
yet satisfied. 
She moves me-
Her lips and eyes combine
to spark a look of reflection.
She projects.
I project.
We project.

These are just my thoughts,
just one take
on a hundred-million flows of current.

I think I know that person. 
Wild.
Untamed.
These are words that come to mind.

She makes me want a new life.
But go slow-
Rushing is what made you wish
in the first place.

What hunts you?
What traps you?

I want to see like you do
for a moment
and then see with my eyes
again.

How much happens in a moment?

What is gained or lost?
What is learned?
What is felt?
When is control lost?
At what point does my will become compromised by external forces?
What if the forces that blind me are not external at all?
What is a moment?
How much beauty or tragedy can be contained herein?
How much suffering or joy can occur?
How long a second can seem!
How high can we rise?
And to what depths can we sink!

The image of my life becoming new:
A clogged drain.

The water, my aspirations,
My life, the pipe.

face two face

daze

Grey days.

Waking up reaching out

Hands full of empty sheets

And nothing else-

Everything slips right through my fingers

Like sand in an hourglass;

Tell your dog not to act like a dog.

stop barking!
stop growling!
stop hunting for scraps!
do not eat garbage!
do not return to your vomit!
do not roll in shit!

but is it not our instinct to?

SPACES
space is

no one is objective
there are no objective subjects
nothing that doesn't coexist.
learned + unlearned = 1
peaceful man + evil man = 1
mother + murderer = 1
1 + 1 = 1
(why does this feel like my home, my life? it would still be a home without me living in it, still be a body without my soul. but I am what makes it what it is.)
in this body. in this life. in this time, this age, this day, this moment.
everyone just sat around pointing fingers at one another and no one dared to speak.  no one would look anyone else in the eye.  everyone simply sat and waited for someone else to break the silence, to stand up, and to lead them.
but no one did a thing.
there are two things a polite gentleman never brings up at the dinner table.
but...
my parents taught us love
and showed us how to live
these are things that are born
bred into us.
Lies were not rewarded, nor were they hidden from view, they were brought from dark to light, and with them, truth, and through that came healing, learning, and insight. Family. Unity. Togetherness. Leadership. Determination. Selflessness. Hard-work. Strength. Perseverance. Dedication. Humanity. Those are the staples of our table.
Bread
into us.
stop barking!
stop growling!
stop hunting for scraps!
do not eat garbage!
do not return to your vomit!
do not roll in shit!
But is it not our instinct, too?
does nothing make coherent sense?
or do all things meld together
and all colors form from one?
earth and animal
sky and water
there are no breeds, no species
no being apart from being
all things being for a reason
there are no meaningless decisions
no moments devoid of decisions
so
choose
use choice
choose reason
use voice

use life
open your mind

MY means are hard to see.

What's more difficult?

Defining truth honestly

And without illusion-

Or reading dreams accurately

Before their conclusion?

Though we oft veer

Far and wide, wide and far  

From our intended courses

Ultimately, whether good or ill-

In the end

All of our character

Everything we've envisioned

Hoped for,

Dreamed of,

Everything that we are,

Everything that made us that-

Every choice,

Every motivation

All that is special, all that is human,

Humanity itself, existence, all that exists;

Shall shine through, brightly.

And be seen

As it is.

Perseverance lies in patience.

Faith resides with that which is felt.

Finally, hope is the belief in tomorrow,

In smiling faces,

Blue skies,

And better days.

I implore you,

Mirror man,

To view every end,

As a more educated beginning.

To step from your door,

Acknowledging the past

And all learning, all experience

By remembering those days passed-

In a sigh of respect,

And a promise

it was then that the artist reached his pinnacle, only when he had nothing left to believe in except his work could he see what death truly meant, and thus, life. His family held him up, and nothing but that brand of love and his own art kept him alive.  Nothing else had any meaning.  Everything else had died.  Everyone else was fleeting and led by impulse.  His world was tangible.  His form was one that he could find reason in.  He would build four walls and paint a world inside those walls that looked nothing like the outside world, a single image that portrayed all the beauty he had remembered in life. Years would pass and he would no longer be able to remember the way the world really was: tragic, disappointing, and full of people who forget everything.  He vowed to paint a picture that he could believe in, and even if that portrait was torn to shreds and burned, he would still have faith in it.  He would remember his vision of the world with vivid detail and unfading passion, and to him-- that was everything. And with that, she chopped off his head.