a letter: to me from my brother. i miss him. a lot.
My dear,
It sounds as though you and I are subject to the same obscure, ethereal dips into melancholy. I have long held that my life is of little real concern to me; that is, my life does not depress me, life depresses me. Life as we know it is social Darwinism in action. There is no community, brotherhood, fraternity, love. There is only the dog-eat-dog principle of self. I don't fit too well into that paradigm. For as I said, my life isn't that interesting to me. I cannot find the ambition or the traction to pursue policies meant solely to elevate my quality of life. On the other hand, the world is so entrenched in cold and fear and sectarian bigotries that the full weight of my efforts, selflessly applied, would change nothing. So I am paralyzed into inaction. I lack the vanity to work for myself and possess insufficient strength to work for mankind. Of course, there is a great deal of compromise or middle ground between these two extremes, but I tend to think in absolutes. I take no joy in helping others, for I am only reminded in the exchange of my inability to help all. But this isn't ego, despite appearances. It's cynicism, to be sure, but my ego has nothing to do with it. I'll buy a meal and a cup of coffee for a downtrodden soul; I'll give my last penny to someone who needs it more than I; I'll march in a parade screaming louder than all against the injustices of the world. But in each case I'll feel worse when it's over. Gratitiude shames me. Moral rectitiude only highlights my moral failings. So what's left? Paralysis and despair. I used to drink a lot to hide from that despair, but I started to hurt people when I got drunk. I do not like to hurt people. So now I go through life in a sort of cloud, a stasis, a sad and defeated little man with no direction whatsoever.
And that brings me to my point. One of my favorite poems, as I've probably told you before, is Matthew Arnold's "Dover Beach". The last few lines are (not in stanza form, I'm afraid, for I cannot recall where the line breaks are): "Ah love--let us be true to one another, for the world, which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new, hath really neither love, nor light, nor peace, nor certitude, nor help for pain. And we are here, as on a darkling plain, swept with confused alarms of struggle
or flight, while ignorant armies clash by night." In the poem the narrator bemoans the world and it's pitiful human occupants. He abhors our cruelty, our bloodlust, our apathy, our predeliction for the banality of war. But notice how he begins his final stanza: "Ah love--let us be true to one another..." In the end, the world's a shithole of selfishness and despair. All we have is each other. If there is no love in the absolute, there is only the most local love--for friends, family, mates. I hold on to that. Sometimes, I'll look around at the love given to me by Jocelyn and the unconditional love freely offered to me by our canine companions and it overwhelms me. My heart swells to perceive that much love
offered to such a sad, pathethic old sinner like myself.
I do not know the source of your melancholy, my love. You are a sensitive soul, however, and sensitive souls are often marginalized by this vain, indulgent, narcissistic, cruel culture of ours. With marginalization comes lonliness, frustration, the feeling that you have much to say where no one is interested in listening. Your metaphor of a small boat in a big sea is perfect. So moor when you can. In loved ones. But don't drown in this sea of melancholy. There is a certain tragic beauty in melancholia--the 19th century Romantics (among my favorite poets, obviously) worshipped it. But
that gets us only so far. It becomes a narcotic, our most
comfortable sanctuary, and thus draws us deeper into its turbulent waters.
I don't know what the answer is, my love. I wish I did. I feel
always like a fraud and a failure that I have not achieved more with my gifts. I feel always afraid that Jocelyn and others will tire of my defeatist under-achievement. But the amazing thing is that all she wants from me--indeed, the only thing apparently wanted of me by those who truly love me--is my love and my affection. And I try to honor that holiest of covenants by being the best person that I can be. If I cannot make those who love me proud by my material acomplishments, I will try to make them proud by my character. I have much to atone for. I have innumerable faults and failings. And yet I am loved. I try to convince myself that I can be worthy of all that love if I overcome those faults and failings. Who knows how it will all end.
My dear, I fear that I have only talked about myself, when I meant to assuage your own misgivings. Perhaps there's a bit of ego, after all. Nevertheless, it's the only wisdom I can impart, if it be wisdom at all. I hope there is at least some relevance to it.
Your creative writing, incidentally, is beautiful. More beautiful, in fact, than I would have expected. Don't be offended by that. I would have expected you to write competently and expressively. But it exceeds that. I urge you to find the time to continue. It needs a bit of discipline, perhaps, and a little clarification (the pitfalls of stream-of-consciousness writing), but your imagery and your word choice is truly adept. I would have guessed that someone
well-trained in creative writing had written it. The trick isn't so much to string beautiful words and ideas together. That takes talent, to be sure, but clarity takes talent and discipline. I get a strong sense of what you're trying to communicate, but unless your cohesion is well-honed, no one but you will understand exactly what you're trying to express. And that may be fine, if your writing is
just for you. I think it could be more than that, though, if you
wanted it to be (not to suggest that I'm some grand judge of poetic merit--but, if you'll pardon the conceit, I'm pretty adept at analyzing poetry). I'd like to see more.
In the meantime, take good care of yourself. My love to the boys.
All my love,
Your Brother
*all I ask for is to go to New Mexico, where he finds himself these days to see him, to talk to him, to get drunk on cheap wine and good memories and feel happy again.
I miss him so much my heart hurts.
My dear,
It sounds as though you and I are subject to the same obscure, ethereal dips into melancholy. I have long held that my life is of little real concern to me; that is, my life does not depress me, life depresses me. Life as we know it is social Darwinism in action. There is no community, brotherhood, fraternity, love. There is only the dog-eat-dog principle of self. I don't fit too well into that paradigm. For as I said, my life isn't that interesting to me. I cannot find the ambition or the traction to pursue policies meant solely to elevate my quality of life. On the other hand, the world is so entrenched in cold and fear and sectarian bigotries that the full weight of my efforts, selflessly applied, would change nothing. So I am paralyzed into inaction. I lack the vanity to work for myself and possess insufficient strength to work for mankind. Of course, there is a great deal of compromise or middle ground between these two extremes, but I tend to think in absolutes. I take no joy in helping others, for I am only reminded in the exchange of my inability to help all. But this isn't ego, despite appearances. It's cynicism, to be sure, but my ego has nothing to do with it. I'll buy a meal and a cup of coffee for a downtrodden soul; I'll give my last penny to someone who needs it more than I; I'll march in a parade screaming louder than all against the injustices of the world. But in each case I'll feel worse when it's over. Gratitiude shames me. Moral rectitiude only highlights my moral failings. So what's left? Paralysis and despair. I used to drink a lot to hide from that despair, but I started to hurt people when I got drunk. I do not like to hurt people. So now I go through life in a sort of cloud, a stasis, a sad and defeated little man with no direction whatsoever.
And that brings me to my point. One of my favorite poems, as I've probably told you before, is Matthew Arnold's "Dover Beach". The last few lines are (not in stanza form, I'm afraid, for I cannot recall where the line breaks are): "Ah love--let us be true to one another, for the world, which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new, hath really neither love, nor light, nor peace, nor certitude, nor help for pain. And we are here, as on a darkling plain, swept with confused alarms of struggle
or flight, while ignorant armies clash by night." In the poem the narrator bemoans the world and it's pitiful human occupants. He abhors our cruelty, our bloodlust, our apathy, our predeliction for the banality of war. But notice how he begins his final stanza: "Ah love--let us be true to one another..." In the end, the world's a shithole of selfishness and despair. All we have is each other. If there is no love in the absolute, there is only the most local love--for friends, family, mates. I hold on to that. Sometimes, I'll look around at the love given to me by Jocelyn and the unconditional love freely offered to me by our canine companions and it overwhelms me. My heart swells to perceive that much love
offered to such a sad, pathethic old sinner like myself.
I do not know the source of your melancholy, my love. You are a sensitive soul, however, and sensitive souls are often marginalized by this vain, indulgent, narcissistic, cruel culture of ours. With marginalization comes lonliness, frustration, the feeling that you have much to say where no one is interested in listening. Your metaphor of a small boat in a big sea is perfect. So moor when you can. In loved ones. But don't drown in this sea of melancholy. There is a certain tragic beauty in melancholia--the 19th century Romantics (among my favorite poets, obviously) worshipped it. But
that gets us only so far. It becomes a narcotic, our most
comfortable sanctuary, and thus draws us deeper into its turbulent waters.
I don't know what the answer is, my love. I wish I did. I feel
always like a fraud and a failure that I have not achieved more with my gifts. I feel always afraid that Jocelyn and others will tire of my defeatist under-achievement. But the amazing thing is that all she wants from me--indeed, the only thing apparently wanted of me by those who truly love me--is my love and my affection. And I try to honor that holiest of covenants by being the best person that I can be. If I cannot make those who love me proud by my material acomplishments, I will try to make them proud by my character. I have much to atone for. I have innumerable faults and failings. And yet I am loved. I try to convince myself that I can be worthy of all that love if I overcome those faults and failings. Who knows how it will all end.
My dear, I fear that I have only talked about myself, when I meant to assuage your own misgivings. Perhaps there's a bit of ego, after all. Nevertheless, it's the only wisdom I can impart, if it be wisdom at all. I hope there is at least some relevance to it.
Your creative writing, incidentally, is beautiful. More beautiful, in fact, than I would have expected. Don't be offended by that. I would have expected you to write competently and expressively. But it exceeds that. I urge you to find the time to continue. It needs a bit of discipline, perhaps, and a little clarification (the pitfalls of stream-of-consciousness writing), but your imagery and your word choice is truly adept. I would have guessed that someone
well-trained in creative writing had written it. The trick isn't so much to string beautiful words and ideas together. That takes talent, to be sure, but clarity takes talent and discipline. I get a strong sense of what you're trying to communicate, but unless your cohesion is well-honed, no one but you will understand exactly what you're trying to express. And that may be fine, if your writing is
just for you. I think it could be more than that, though, if you
wanted it to be (not to suggest that I'm some grand judge of poetic merit--but, if you'll pardon the conceit, I'm pretty adept at analyzing poetry). I'd like to see more.
In the meantime, take good care of yourself. My love to the boys.
All my love,
Your Brother
*all I ask for is to go to New Mexico, where he finds himself these days to see him, to talk to him, to get drunk on cheap wine and good memories and feel happy again.
I miss him so much my heart hurts.
VIEW 7 of 7 COMMENTS
elcaminobill:
trebo:
Your brother walks a dimmed path...He should not dread his own faults..for that is human...Those who choose character over material...Are those who have understanding of life...He is looked upon...by all who know him...not as a sinner but a saint...The road travelled is difficult but he is yet to realize that he is on the path...His path...The right path...As for you my sweet Charitee...I urge you to make his light grow brighter...if only it lasts a few moments...He calls for you...sister...the bond is evident...within those words...A love that has been...unscathed thru trials and tribulations...A love that holds dear under dire circumstances...Send your love unto the wind...then send yourself if you can!