Every struggle to define irony? Hint: it is perhaps ironic that Alanis Morissette song is not ironic. But that's been played out.
Coincidence is often confused with irony.
As far as I understand it, irony is laced with a historical foundation whether in the context of a story or simply in the sense of history behind a given outcome, as indicated in the images below (though they would probably have more impact without the explanatory notes underneath).
It is an awareness of the history and its outcome that reveals the irony and in so doing yields a higher truth.
I've been on a diversion lately, immersing myself in music. If I had my way I'd have music playing 24 hours a day. I have two sets of headphones, the in-ear variety for driving (car stereo doesn't work, most stuff on mp3 player anyhow...illegal? so is speeding...) and noise cancelling for every chance I get.
It isn't strange that this is what I've been doing as music has been a vital part of my life since a very young age. Nor is it strange that I have a 1TB hard drive filling up rapidly. Nor is it strange that my musical taste varies, from gospel to techno to post-rock to ambient and anything and everything in between. I appreciate (almost) all forms of musical expression even though I may not enjoy some of them.
I used to listen to harder rock and the obligatory classic rock when younger and grew out of it as I grew older. This isn't a judgment of the music, just an acknowledgment of how I changed. I suppose if I listened to classic rock 'til the day I dropped dead I'd wonder if I plateaued and stayed there.
Anyhow, in my travels I stumbled across a box set called "Goodbye Babylon" several years ago issued by Dust To Digital. I sat on this for years and, at best, dabbled in it. Lately I've revisited it. Perhaps it was the timing but I sat mesmerized.
The album is filled with old gospel/church songs. These aren't the traditional hymns everyone knows. My wife, who knows every church song ever written, didn't know any of them. We're talking seriously old and, I'm guessing, obscure. The static crackle of old 78s resonates. There are a few "big" names many people known, Mahalia Jackson perhaps the most famous, but this is definitely not a best of compilation.
Though I devour many, many forms of music - dub and dub techno my latest obsession - it does not generally captivate me as it did in my youth. It doesn't move the soul and it is only occasional when music actually stirs my emotions. For the most part music is meditative, tranquilizing. Perhaps I have hardened, perhaps I don't expect as much from music, I'm not sure.
But I do know that the only music that really grips me and stirs my soul is "religious" music. I've sat captivated by the recital of the Qur'an and can easily listen to the adhan or Al-Fatihah many times without tire. I've found myself in trancelike stupor listening to Buddhist chanting, been hypnotized by Qawwali music and can listen to Native American spirituals anytime.
Though I genuinely "feel" the power of the music, I can't help but wonder if I lack proper context to truly appreciate the music. Perhaps I am self-limiting in this view. My "context" is Christian. Not all "Christian" music, mind you. Much of it is simply not good, just as in other style of music. Just because it is tagged as Christian doesn't mean I am obligated to somehow think it good.
Much of today's "religious" (especially Christian) music is no different from the "world" music it so (often cheaply) imitates. It is often just worldly music with a Christian stamp, maybe a Jesus thrown in here and there to authenticate it.
But this box set is basically Jesus straight, no chaser. It is very reminiscent of the music from Searching For The Wrong Eyed Jesus in its uncompromising simplicity, fervency and occasional weirdness. Surprisingly, I found my spirit being lifted as I listened to the entirety of the first disc.
Sure it is a slice of Americana, culturally significant and historically interesting in a Bob Dylan, Neil Young, roots music kind of way. You can listen to it and be curious and explore it and yet not be touched by its spirit at all.
But I think it was the simplicity that caught me off guard, not as a novelty, not as one sitting in judgment of the music or the musicians, but as one who understood. In years past I would have written it off as backwards, made fun of it and moved on. But there is power in it and I found myself taken aback, amazed at what I heard.
I keep coming back to 1994. Either I am elevating it to myth or it has been the center of gravity of the space in which I now occupy. It was only a year but so much came out of that year I am only now beginning to understand the fallout.
In revisiting my past, mostly through music, I stumbled across an article I had published in the Seattle Times on October 2, 1994. It was my first published piece. Here it is in full:
Soaring Spirits -- A Brief Lesson In Kite-Flying Offered Pure Cleansing Energy
I read the letters to the editor daily and find myself wondering where the good is in the world. But sometimes, amidst the muck and the mire of the daily grind, there bursts a ray of shimmering hope. Spending a cathartic Sunday afternoon at Magnuson Park, I sat watching in fascination as a colorful array of sport kites, poetry in motion if you've never really watched them, circled in the crystal clear blue sky above, Mount Rainier in full splendor dwarfing the background. After following one particular kite for a while, the man controlling it so gracefully sensed my awe and said hello. I commented on his kite and before I knew it he was teaching me to fly it using his own kite, a child's excitement in his voice as he performed this completely unselfish act. The beauty lies in the bond formed with the kite and the wind. If I took my eyes off the kite for two seconds it came crashing to the ground. When my focus was on the kite, not only did it fly smoothly but all other things were washed from my mind, there was simply no room. An act as simple as flying a kite was pure cleansing energy; one could say it was spiritual. This man also introduced me to several gentlemen from Prism, a local company that crafts these high-tech, high-quality kites. They had volunteered their time and kites to show a local church group how to fly them. To see the joy in their faces as they learned; to feel it in the enthusiasm of the man who taught me; and to feel it in the pride of the guys at Prism, their dream, a perfect union of man and nature, soaring above their heads, made me realize there is hope in the world. And it felt good. Sometimes the big picture that so terrifies us just needs a little fine tuning. So, to Pack and the guys at Prism, a heartfelt thanks.
The funny thing about the story, the subtext if you will, was that I had just taken a hit of acid.
I own a Prism stunt kite and have flown it a few times since then. A friend of mine fixed me up on a blind date because she had asked her if she liked flying kites. Tough to build a relationship on that (well, that and smoking pot). I vaguely remember driving about an hour from my home to look at new kites. Seemed like kite flying could have been a big thing but I live in Ohio and the kites were sold out of some guy's basement. Guess it wasn't a big thing. Maybe somewhere other than Ohio...
My family thought I was bizarre when, in more recent memory, I brought it to the Outer Banks on a family vacation. Loved the reaction from one of the guys in the beach shop when I showed him my now "vintage" kite. There was a moment where I thought it was kinda cool.
It was a joy to fly it on the beach but for some reason it just never lived up to that brief, fleeting moment written about for all the world to see.
Sunday. Another 32 hour shift over the course of 56 hours. Yes, that is correct. But it's work that enables me to think, write, listen to music, blog, and watch movies. Cushy, eh? Doesn't pay a living wage and is a job that supplements my "real" job so it isn't so great. I'd rather have the free time but am grateful that in terms of having to supplement my income it's a good gig.
I happened to stumble across articles on two controversial figures in the Christian world, Juanita Bynum and Paula White. I run in circles where they are quite popular; in fact, Ms. Bynum was featured at a recent conference at our former church.
The troubling thing is that the "Jesus" she represents seems to have taken a back seat to her claims of being a prophetess, actress and motivational speaker. Ditto Paula White. I've heard Ms. Bynum speak at conferences. The woman is a powerhouse. But...
I obviously can't speak for their personal lives (and from what I can tell their lives, like all of our lives, have faced turmoil, moreso being in the public eye) but I can tell you that folks in the "outside" world, if they pay any attention at all, would not be able to distinguish them too much from other motivational speakers with a religious, even Christianized, slant.
It used to really bother me. Now I really don't care so much.
I feel this way about a lot of things that used to trouble me. Doctrine. Biblical criticism. Celebrity preachers. Prosperity preachers. Creation scientists. Christian enclaves. Megachurches. Christian-y entertainment that is just imitation of the "world" with a Christian stamp.
I'm not better than any of that. Not at all. But I've reached a place where it just isn't my focus. Perhaps it has to do with the responsibilities of life and the realization that all of these things come with the luxury of time. In other words, all of the above manifest in societies of privilege.
I suppose that many significant changes start from the "top" down so this isn't to say these are bad things. It's just important to keep them in perspective. It's a luxury to be able to sit here - at work - and write down thoughts that most people will never see.
From where I sit, listening to John Tavener's "The Protecting Veil" on a pair of Bose Quietcomfort 15 headphones while at work, contemplating, googling, researching, I am one of those privileged souls. I don't want to be ungrateful. I just need help in keeping it in perspective because sometimes it can be difficult to see outside the cocoon in which we live.
All that really matters is seeking the presence, the very realy presence, of Jesus in and through me. If the above can help me in this regard they are beneficial. But if these things become idols to which I bow, they need to go.
I am terrestrial, tasting of the things of the world, enjoying them, longing to find the divine through them. Absent are those days of soaring lyrical words, of soaring intellectual revelations, of soaring spiritual highs. However, this is not a dark night of the soul either. This is the middle ground: this is life, no future, no past, just right now.
Lately, it seems, I've transferred by addiction to something seemingly less harmful than alcohol, drugs or pornography. This isn't really the case, though, because any "addiction" is merely a cover for something internal, an projection outward of desires inward. My latest addiction is my other blog.
Why the need to do it? Why the need to share what I have been, over the past decade or so, hoarding? Attention? Love? Escape? Hope for a sponsor so I can be free of the drudgery of being slave to the wage?
I suppose I seek something transcendent in it, though those moments are few. Music, in my past, had always provided an escape, transcendence even. But I haven't found this since the late 90s. I believe music is merely the universal expression from the soul of its longing toward Truth. Artists, from death metal to gospel and the gamut in between, merely represents everyone's different point along that journey. Obviously, the continuum has expanded its boundaries.
So I find music that stirs me, that "moves" me in the sense that it expresses or taps into my emotional state. But transcendence? I get this on occasion through Christian music (though, for example, so too can the recitation of the Qur'an can elicit similar response). But often a Christian song that once stirred my soul will, years later, stir nothing at all but reminisce. Perhaps it is merely a trigger, as all music is, a memory machine of where we have been.
I find that rather than the longing for that surge of a rush, those moments I most appreciate are moments of peace, stillness, calm. I have found that it is this that I find in Christian music, mostly because it stirs up in my soul what has been deposited there through the Word.
I can find stillness of another kind through secular music though this seems to be fleeting; my expectations of what music should do limits the experience. But it does happen, often in strange ways. Most recently, I have stumbled onto what has been tagged "post rock". Perhaps it hearkens back to my days of "hair metal" and the euphoria associated with such loudness but for some reason the mood created by some of these bands actually moves me, though it's certainly an emotional response more than a spiritual one.
Eluvium's epic "Zerthis Was a Shivering Human Image" carried me through a difficult state of mind not too long ago. With it's basic structure of guitar washed in distortion channeling back and forth for fifteen minutes doesn't seem like much for relaxing the mind, it would seem that the noise and my thoughts collapsed the wave function, so to speak, and I achieved a state of stillness.
But I long for that escape. I want to run (knowing of course, wherever I go I am still there...), to fly away, to wander and roam. In the end, however, I do realize that no matter the means, I still remain in the "stickiness" of the world and until I can embrace it, see through it, allow it to be resurrected, my longing to "escape" through music and give it all away, seeking connection in the comments, will be but a fleeting journey.
Unless, of course, I figure out a way to make money at it.
I work in a factory. Yes, there are still some left in the United States. Actually, with all the focus on jobs not in the U.S. anymore we often forget that there are still many jobs left in manufacturing. Sadly, they generally don't pay a living wage unless it is a highly specialized skill. I am a hybrid of sorts. I was in Quality until the recession hit and I was moved back to running production presses in order to stay employed. The hands-on experience has added depth to the Quality process and provides a link between the two. Interstitial. Seems to be where I always end up. Create my own position.
Anyhow, over the past several months I have learned, perhaps surprisingly, just how many "religious" people there are in the plant. I don't mean loose reference to God or the Lord or Jesus Christ used as a cuss word. I mean people who truly have faith. This is deeply entrenched American spirituality and there is much ignorance in terms of faiths other than Christianity but these are people who have relationships with Jesus. I can think of five off the top of my head.
It is apparent, upon reflection, that their work ethics and overall attitude reflect this. It isn't the only sign of their faith but it makes their talk of faith shine more brightly. I have lately found it difficult to go to church and I'm not sure why. While the word preached satisfies a hunger and I enjoy fellowship with people, for some reason the rest of it feels like a social event. Not a bad thing, I suppose, but I tend so often to be "private" about my faith. I prefer to walk the walk and am prepared to discuss it should anyone wonder.
My goal is to be a light, to speak life and be encouraging to those I work with because in that environment it can be very hard to find. But I see what an effect it has from the top down. Two in upper management are people of faith and it is apparent in the way they address people as people and focus all aspects on the human element.
So the "high" spirituality I am so accustomed to has been replaced, if you will, with a more "earthy" variety. With an addictive personality there is a longing for the high that often accompanies spiritual pursuit. But how much of that is created, a form of self-medication and, perhaps, self delusion?
There is something deeply spiritual about work, about working with the hands. I am more at home on the factory floor than I've ever been in an office. I can do the office and I currently have one on the factory floor, the "fishbowl" it's called. It's something about the activity, the interaction of the people, the physical medium of the equipment building, breaking, being repaired, all with human hands, the creative process unfolding.
I do wonder, however, why it is that lately everyone of faith I know is so focused on the end times whenever matters of faith arise in discussion. Is that the default category, the common denominator among Christians?
Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water.
"Pathetic," he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic."
He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again.
"As I thought," he said. "No better from this side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is."
I am working on becoming human. I bought a grill. That may not sound like a big deal. But I never "got" the grilling thing. It always seemed so suburban. So we bought a basic charcoal grill. I get it now.
And there's nothing "spiritual" about it. I suppose I could find something there. But there are times when spirituality can seem so high, so uppity, so otherworldly and elitist that it leads to a disconnect on the human plane. This isn't the "in the world but not of the world" variety of disconnect as in that statement there is a definite engagement with the world around.
I'm talking about the spirituality, more, I suppose of the mental or intellectual variety, that leads, if not to an air of superiority, to fatigue, distress, loneliness. If one isn't careful, such a spirituality can be dangerous, a religion of one.
In 1995, I made my way to my brother's wedding in Indiana. At this time, I was quite the pothead. I believe this was the last time I shaved my goatee for public approval. I kept the hair short and removed the facial hair and tried to remain fairly well kempt in an effort to not look like a typical pothead.
It was a difficult wedding. I had just returned home from Seattle and was slacking. Big time. I may have been cleaning carpets at the time. Quite the fall from grace in the eyes of the fam, having been professionally successful prior to my walkabout. I was now living in a warehouse in downtown Youngstown, dating a woman of a different race and basically reaking havoc among the traditional values of my family. In essence, I was still in rebellion mode though I knew not from what at that time.
Many of the details are fuzzy (drugs do have consequences...). I believe I drove up with one of my best friends from high school but can't remember why she was in Ohio as she lived in Chicago. Gotta get some details on that from her. I know she was at the wedding and I know I drove her from Indiana back to her home in Chicago and drove all the way back to Ohio in a whirlwind the same night in order to be at work the next morning. But that came later...
At the wedding, I ended up pretending to be ok. I wanted desperately to be with the woman I was dating but felt intense pressure to not be with her. In the end, it was my insecurities that created the negativity toward our relationship. It was not necessarily prejudice on the part of my family; they hardly knew her. No, the problem was my insecurity and need for acceptance and approval, that freedom I sought still lacking.
So I faked it the whole weekend and ended up smoking pot every chance I could. I pretended to have fun and to all those who say me it appeared as if I was having fun. Maybe I was but deep down inside I was a mess. One night at the hotel, it was late and a few of us were sitting around talking and I was rambling on about something and my friend looked at me and said: "Nobody cares."
It could've hurt; I could've been offended. But the sad truth is that she was right.
To this day, the phrase 'nobody cares' has become something of a joke capturing the essence of just how fleeting are the thoughts and cares to which we cling. It isn't that we are not cared about, as such, but that those things with which we preoccupy ourselves simply are not that important.
It was one of the funniest thing I had ever heard and to this day it is still funny when we talk about it.
It's popular. Way popular. So of course the critics come out. Yes, it's about the Trinity. Yes, it's 'pop' theology. There is a reason that scholarly tomes on theology do not become best sellers. And, yes, if you remove some of the explicit "Christian" terminology the theology might seem a bit more inclusive than the exclusivity, the membership club, to which Christians are so accustomed.
This is the work of a person who has suffered, who has been damaged in the deepest parts of his being, and has been healed. It's a story of the healing process, by someone has been there. Read his personal story before judging him.
For anyone who has suffered in some form or other, the book will resonate. Whether or not it will lead to healing, I can't say as it merely acted as a reminder of the healing that has been occurring in my life. There are many moments where he expressed quite well what has been going on internally and it is an inspirational reminder to return to the Source rather than try and take matters into our own hands. I believe this, not the theology, is the reason for the book's success.
The book is a work of fiction; it is not a work of theology. It's a story, and a simple one at that. It's certainly not going to win any prizes for it's literary qualities (grown men responding to profound truths with 'Whoa!' and 'Oh boy, oh boy'?) but it is deeply affecting. For people not so theologically inclined, some of the "theology" talk (which is a large portion of much of the book) might be a bit tough to muddle through. But it certainly has people, ordinary people, non-theologians, talking about the Trinity and the nature of God and love and relationships, grace and mercy. Not a bad thing at all.
The problem isn't the book. Or people flocking to it. Or Christians thinking they now understand the Trinity.
No, the problem is what the Church has become. In an effort to be all things to all people, the Church has been cast adrift, irrelevant even, just another cog in the cultural wheel. The deeper things of the faith have been laid aside and have therefore ceased to take root in the lives of believers. What has taken it's place is church as social center, an "alternative" to the culture at large (read: it is basically the mainstream culture with a Christian stamp).
Deeper yet, the problem is that the Trinity is complex and has been all but ignored in many churches. Sure it's difficult. Why is that so shocking? But it's not impossible. Just hard. Challenging work. The Trinity is a hedge, a boundary to keep us from straying. And within it lies the beauty and the power of the doctrine of the Church, 'doctrine' a word which causes repulsion in the church of today. At best, the foundation of the Church's creed is given lip service. It seems to contradict the simplicity of the gospel of which Paul speaks and the light burden Jesus mentions.
I also believe this book is the author's response to his own struggle with this very same question. It isn't a book that says "This is the way it is" but "This is what I've found."
But don't criticize this book. Don't criticize the readers.
Fix the problem.
The problem is us:
Educate.
Live the gospel.
And feed His sheep.
Obviously there is a hunger both in and out of the church and this book satisfies that need. Until the Church can satisfy that need, books like these will continue to proliferate and hungry people will seek them to curb their hunger.
I recommend it. I just hope they don't make a movie out of it.
Y'know how we often talk about getting out, going, just being free?
It's a regular conversation in small towns, suburban towns, where culture is, well, isn't. I vowed to get out. I didn't know what that meant. All I knew was the small town thing, the high school clique thing, the pursuit of the traditional career path thing wasn't my thing.
Never did prom. Did two Sadie's Hawkins dance (what the hell is that anyhow?) and one homecoming dance. It was pretty stupid. I suppose being drunk or stealing street signs instead of participating in anything else in high school wasn't very bright either.
All I knew was I hated it. It seemed stupid, pointless, stale, cliche. So I couldn't wait to leave. By the time I was 25 I had a fat bank account, was a recovering alcoholic (though was in reality simply trading alcohol for the mellower haze of being a pothead) and was running headlong into madness. Ah, the good ol' days.
So I left. I had a semi-plan, a list of friends to visit in a circuit throughout the southern route to the West. I really did have a good time. The freedom was intoxicating, invigorating. What I remember - and had difficulty handling - was the total and complete freedom to make my own choices. Driven by the demons of abuse, addiction and obligation, this freedom was a struggle. I felt as if I had to get somewhere, do something, gain approval from someone. In other words, I wasn't free.
But I left. I cut the ties. I quit the job and left. The photo above shows some of the remnants. One of the best moves was becoming a member of Hosteling International. To stay in the heart of San Francisco for under $20. In the red light district of San Fransisco, anyhow. Maybe I do have a prostitute story. Sort of...
I had met a guy (can't remember his name...we were sick of each other by this time anyhow...) in a Hostel in Portland, Oregon and he needed a ride to San Fransisco. I was headed south anyhow...camped out overnight in the dunes on the coast of Oregon...couldn't find weed in Acadia, California and ended up sleeping on the side of the road somewhere...got to drive the entire stretch of Highway 101 along the coast...convenient company I suppose...but no pictures.
So out the door of the Hostel is, quite literally, hooker alley. I had never seen so many prostitutes congregated in one place with car after car driving up, girl getting in, car driving off. And these girls were stunning...in a done up, plastic kind of way. These were not the crack cocaine kind I was familiar with in Youngstown. So we sat out on the street for hours, just watching. It was at once fascinating and sad, on so many levels. No conversation with the prostitutes, just observations. Not much of a story, but...
So the photo above is what's left of my journey. A couple of receipts and the Stamp Book from Hosteling International (with several other hostel destinations stamped inside, all of which are no longer in existence) and my journal.
The journal is a weird thing and says a lot. There is very little personal information, very little details on what I was doing. It is mostly musing, bad poetry and the ramblings of someone who is smoking way too much dope. There are little snippets here and again which are intriguing but they require more analysis. But there is much detachment, very little personal detail.
I do have Gilligan and The Professor's autographs, though. What a weird thing that was. At some beach festival on Pike Street where I worked there was a bunch of sand and Gilligan and The Professor sitting there signing autographs. It was a truly sad thing, these two old guys living off of a show thirty years in syndication, Bob Denver telling the promoter he was hungry and wanted something to eat. Just plain bizarre. Even then I sought irony...
...which explains the L.A. Coroner's receipt for two t-shirts. They were selling souvenirs. I met the woman who had started it up and she had informed me that it started as something of a fund raiser and it took off. They had mugs, towels, t-shirts and an assortment of stuff that people could buy.
I did find the impressions of my first, and only, Dead show in the journal and my first, though not last, time on acid. But that's another story...
In 1994, I was roaming the West, bogged down with way too much stuff and too much existential baggage. A friend of my father's, who was living in Seattle, had some property outside of Flathead Lake in Montana. He offered up his place prior to my visit to Seattle where I would stay with him for a few days. It's hard going back, so much has been forgotten in the haze of fifteen years gone by.
A pivotal period of time in my life yet so little has been recorded. It is a mystery I have yet to penetrate. Like Chris McCandless I so wanted freedom and space yet at the same time was desperately seeking love, not so much of others, though that was present, but love of self and, ultimately, peace with God, though at the time a notion of a 'personal' God was the God of wrath, punishing me for every sin. I sought freedom from the burden of God as well.
Pictures will follow (when I find them) but the 'home' on the property, of which a foundation had been built, was a school bus. Yep. A school bus. Cliche, perhaps. The property around the bus was littered with (bad) sculptures that looked like either a bunch of hippies on too much of something had built them, scratching their heads in the morning at what had been created, or the kind of things you would find at the home of a serial killer. Freaky either way.
I would stay there for three days. I rode my bike into town (not sure which town it was...Elmo I believe), sat by the lake during sunset (although I may be imagining this based off of a picture I've seen), and basically hung out. No earth shattering revelations came, nothing profound. I do remember the utter darkness and silence inside the bus.
I would venture that Chris had had his fill at some point. Being still, settling in one place, was difficult, especially when not in a state of constant motion "doing" something, anything.
Good for Obama. He is actually doing what he said he'd do. It's gonna ruffle the feathers of some "patriots" in the U.S. For years the policy has been no dialogue. Our way is the best (i.e. only) way and any dialogue hinges upon accepting this fact. Don't like it, we'll drop bombs on you.
Most Americans oppose closing Guantanamo Bay. Guess most Americans haven't seen Taxi to the Dark Side yet.
Sure, we must fight terrorists. But is being a terrorist going to stop terrorism?
And what is the fear of bringing them here? That their buddies will target the U.S.? Or is it that we know our justice system is broken and a fair trial may release them within the U.S.? That they may actually live here, pissed off and jaded by the breach of justice committed upon them?
How many of them might become terrorists because of what has happened to them in the name of "justice" American style?
Didn't Jesus say that he who lives by the sword dies by the sword?
Didn't Jesus also say that blessed are the peacemakers? Can use of war be considered a method of peace? Can we really spin that verse?
Am I not praying enough? Has the Spirit been displaced by my ego? Is it simply one of those times of being alone in the desert? Or is it a continuing failure to choose my destiny, succumbing instead to doing what's expected or seeking the approval, acceptance or appreciation of others?
All of these are self-centered. Yet if the center is misaligned, so too is everything else.
Yet I can't seem to snap out of it. There's obviously a payoff in holding on to the rage but there is also a frustration at the inability to express it properly and it comes out inappropriately. There is a tendency to slip into and "I don't want to deal with it" mode and instead bury myself in books, music or movies all of which don't hold my attention and, at best, neutralize any feeling at all.
Perhaps, if I follow the pattern in this blog over the past few weeks, I can see the trajectory that has landed me here.
I long for escape, for freedom, for the open road, for the simple life, unencumbered by all the burdens my choices have heaped upon me, all the "stuff" of life which I long to shed. I may be living in the delusion that I would truly be free if I had less stuff but the reality is I need to be free from the stuff while I have it.
I am clinging to externals for reassurance, looking for comfort instead of peace, seeking the things of this world rather than things that are eternal.
Not sure how I stumbled across it but after reading these conspiracy theories for awhile it's easy to see how someone can start to believe it.
Somehow I ended up looking into Laurel Canyon and the birth of the hippie generation and stumbled across David McGowan's website.
He has a series (currently on Part XIV) on Laurel Canyon that is fascinating. Considering that his page also has various "alternative" theories about most everything, I'm not sure what to think. But the Laurel Canyon stuff is fascinating. The connections he makes are pretty stunning.
In 1992, my addictions and subsequent wanderlust were beginning to manifest. Big time. I was making good money at a job I swore I'd never do and was living on the cheap and socking the excess money away (what was left after drinking anyhow...). It was during this time I began journeying West frequently. I'd been to Colorado in high school to ski with the family so had a taste of it and was drawn to the idea of space. Lots of it.
A drive from Ohio to Bozeman, Montana; a one-week tour of the four corners in a rented convertible Mustang; a job interview in Brooking, South Dakota. The itch was there.
The photo above shows actual copies of two Times articles where I first learned of his story. I've laminated them in order to preserve them. The first article appeared on September 12, 1992.
The header of Chapter 10, page 98, in Jon Krakaeur's Into The Wild contains the text of the column (if you click on the photo above you can read both articles). I remember the day it hit. It took hold of my soul and never let go.
A week later, the second article, the one above with the photo, appeared.
I have a day planner from 1992 (I was selling cell phones then...remember the bag phones?). On September 18 I have "Vacation" written (with a big arrow pointing through to September 27th).
On September 19th his body was identified.
This was my trip with girlfriend in tow driving to a bed and breakfast in Bozeman, Montana. Even then distance was a magnet. We went through South Dakota, visiting some roadside museum tribute showing where Dances With Wolves was filmed (another serendipitous moment), yes, Wall Drug, the Black Hills and making our way to Bozeman. I think it was this trip where I really became hooked on the open space via automobile.
Somewhere along this path I picked up the Sunday Times (probably outside of Chicago where we were staying with friends on the way) which contained the article on the identification of his body. That photo, which I've never seen anywhere else, is the image I have and will always have of Christopher McCandless.
I picked up a copy of the Argus Leader in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, where we had stayed for a night that week, and found an article about Wayne Westerberg's assistance in identifying the body. Carthage, where Christoper spent time, was just north of the Interstate on which we were traveling to Montana. I was traveling along the same terrain, unknowingly, following in his footsteps as I would do Robert Pirsig's several years later. Below is the original copy of the South Dakota paper, preserved and guarded for seventeen years. The story resonated deep.
Snippets from his diary were published in the Times and then the details soon followed. It was gripping. Horrifying. But I was captivated. Immediately. He went where I was longing to go. For years his story would haunt me. In my travels, he acted as cautionary tale. But he was not a hero. There was no glorifying his tale. He simply lived out where I was headed.
He was, quite simply, me. I think on some level he is a mirror for many who have dreams of going, getting out, wandering into the wild. What I was dabbling in, he acted out in full force. I understand where he was coming from; I understand the drive; I understand the longing for alone and for solitude and for Truth. We all struggle with this, some more overtly than others.
It was to my shock when Jon Krakauer's book was first published. And an even greater shock when the movie came out. Here was a private muse of mine, now made public, myth, legend. For those who know or knew me, to read the book was to read my story. No one could really figure out what it was that was driving me, why I couldn't find peace, why the longing to run, or numb myself. While the questions are never really answers in the case of Christopher McCandless, I, from what I have come to know, get it.
Both he and I graduated from high school and college in the same years. Like him, I too was, and still am, content to drive old cars with high miles. Like him, I too was becoming more and more disgusted with materialism and the "American" dream. I wanted out. As with him, it is perhaps ironic as both of us, though perhaps emotionally lacking, were, for all intensive purposes, well provided for materially. In other words, one might argue, we were both spoiled. Obviously we learned that the answers to life's bigger questions were not to be found in the world of 'stuff' but at least we had the 'stuff' we needed to survive.
It took me years before I was able to read the book and months to muster up the courage to watch the movie. There was something private about his story and I was afraid to relive this period of my life. I wasn't ready to heal as this part of my life had become, in my mind, quite mythical. The reality I wasn't ready to face was that I was just scared, emotionally scarred, a boyish man who wanted to hide from the fear.
Though there were genuine and sincere longings for truth, I don't know that I was running to anything as much as I was being driven by something, running from something.
By the time I left home in 1994, I had a much larger cushion than the one he had. I had a pretty sizeable savings account, a car and, as I would later learn (one of the best lessons I learned being on the road for almost a year), way too much stuff.
I have a soft spot for Christopher McCandless. Without being too sentimental, I can honestly say he may have saved my life. I was the typical suburban dreamer, longing of living in the mountains, or moving to Tibet, being free and on the road. As Christopher McCandless learned, too late, it is hard. And, in the end, what really matters is not being self-sufficient but being interdependent upon others.
For my year on the road I took four rolls of film. That's it. Of all the people I met, I am not in touch with any of them. This is perhaps one of the saddest reminisces of all. I met some amazing people, brilliant, beautiful, adventurous, yet made no connection with any of them. I got close to a few people but couldn't handle it and left. Longing for identity, I ran with a diverse crowd and experienced things I would never have otherwise experienced. But, in the end, all these experiences were mine. They were not shared with anyone.
The road of relationship is much more difficult, and rewarding, than that of the loner which, in the end, is a death sentence. We all die alone, certainly, but what matters is what we have deposited in those who remain when we die.
Christopher McCandless' story is bittersweet. Had he lived, it is likely no book would have been made about him as many have adventured much in the same way he did. It was his horrifying death, capturing a fear many - especially many a traveler - hold, that of dying alone, starving, in the middle of nowhere.
The book is a great read (though it is as much about the author as it is about McCandless) and the movie is stunning. I cried several times during the film, something quite rare, though it had more to do with my process of healing, film as mirror, than it did a concern for the character in the film. It comes highly recommended.
My only concern is that it tends to idolize him and his adventure. After all, he basically abandoned his family. It seems he realized this too late. And, as some have posited, perhaps he was more than just a little bit crazy, his disconnect and need for isolation signs of those who have mental illness.
As an aside note, the song "Big Hard Sun" performed by Eddie Vedder is a remake of an original by Indio whose CD containing the song is was out of print. It was karmic. I heard this song once on some independent channel in my hometown and was mesmerized and bought the CD new back then.
I still have it (love Vedder but the original is much better than the remake...). Here it is twenty years later and it's come full circle.
Here's the original from Indio's Big Harvest album:
As if these connections are not enough, L. Subramaniam play violin on this track. For those who aren't familiar with his work, his track 'Wandering Saint' appears on the Baraka soundtrack which, for those who may be interested, has a strong significance in my life as well.
I have always been led by signs, between points in time that confirm that I am where I am supposed to be. When these signs come I know that what has happened between those two points in time is complete and I can lay it behind me and move on. There have been several of them in my life, confirmations that speak "my" language and are too serendipitous to ignore. This was one of them.
Though I don't consider him to be a saint or hero, Christopher McCandless' life, though tragic in the end, was not in vain.
Faith is hard and faith is messy because faith changes us. If it doesn't change us, challenge us and cause us to look towards others, we need to question the faith to which we cling.
