Once more unto the [past], dear friends, once more ...

(The title, clearly adapted from Shakespeare's Henry V.)

And from my favorite ... 
"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."
   -F. Scott Fitzgerald

9/11 ... here We are again.

I needed to write this poetic version of my memory:

Time Divided

At the exit, the subway, the turnstile,
at the bottom of the stairs, bathed in the cool morning dampness
I was nearly knocked to the floor. A black
businessman dove down the stairs,
landing on a combination of the first metal-lined step
and pure concrete. I distinguish the man as black
because he was nearly colorless grey,
an ashen, terrified grey, fear-stripped--grabbed me, screamed,
“A plane! A plane just hit the Tower!” Frantically tugging,
pulling at the turnstile, desperately trying to escape, to run,
to get back on the subway. A pathetic struggle.  The exit
of the subway only spins one way. He was trapped. We
were trapped. We still are. Dumbfounded,
and a bit of a seasoned commuter at this point, I thought,
This guy’s nuts, and started up the stairs—

Then I heard them … the sirens. They were faint
Coming to life and approaching, the entire heart
of the City’s First Responders were enroute to the
Trade Center. I wasn’t even to the top of the stairs when it
occurred to me, That guy was really well-dressed for a psycho—
That’s when I saw the paper—Goodness gracious, this is hard to type
—it was everywhere, some burning, most burning,
a tortured ticker-tape parade in Memory of Those Lost
rolling in thick waves down toward
the Canyon of Heroes, where I had not so long ago watched the
World Champion Yankees roll as hometown heroes. The man
who dove down the steps had the right idea. The world we knew was
Coming to an end.

The North Tower, breathing fire. The winds swept through the Tower
tongues of flame licked in and out of the wound. (In my dreams, it speaks, it whispers.)

When I turned to see the Towers, I was expecting
to see the magnificent image of all things New York.
Instead, I was given a firsthand look into the gates of hell.
The gates of hell. Above the gates:
Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here.

The North Tower breathing fire. Winds swept through the Tower
Tongues of flame licking in and out of the wound.
The Souls, the ones who haunt me still
by the hundreds, waving
screaming from the wreckage. Silent to the Lost
pilgrims on the ground. A new, bizarre circle of hell.
The Lost, not in Hell, so undeserving, in the Valley David sang
The Valley of …  straining to lean beyond the billowing
smoke and horrific flames. We all began to scream
—terrified pilgrims—screaming  in desperation for
Thy rod and thy staff.

There by Saint Paul’s, parallel to the silent
witnesses within their graves. Surrounded and alone
as time divided beneath the pulsing heat.
Life now a blur, a series of images,
streams of people running away from the Towers,
others running toward the Towers,
most looking straight up.

Zombified, a permanent shadow
of myself,  I turned and began to drag-shuffle
up Vesey Street toward City Hall when the pilgrim
next to me screamed, threw his Wall Street Journal.
When I turned toward him, the Tower, the Gate, I saw
A man was falling, dressed in a blue suit, white shirt, and red tie.
He chose to jump, or he fell, as the flames
of the thousands of gallons of jet fuel
Melted the building from its innards. (This is the one I see each day.)

As the crescendo of the crowds’ screams became deafening,
an even more deafening roar began
and ended in an instant.
The second plane was about to strike the South Tower.
The fireball was massive, catastrophic, excruciatingly hot,
The fumes of jet fuel were everywhere—the taste, I can still taste
the sour-burn of  fuel. The first moment is nearly frozen,
Slow motion in every sense
The flames (You’ve seen them) rolled out
a glowing, rounded orange, red and black cloud
The exit wound belched flaming debris that flew
directly over all of us on the ground. The concussion
the  comet of flying debris
A flying, flaming plane a freight train churning directly overhead.

I rolled to my right, stood
began running up Vesey street, thinking the South Tower, struck by a fatal blow,
became a rolling inferno thundering behind us, rolling to consume us. To consume
all of us. (On some level, it did.) A rolling
incinerator, rolling to destroy all that we knew, all we had once known, all
we would ever know. Our unborn children, future lovers
lost, the petty foolishness of our days, all the pains of ours
Pasts reduced to a fine white dust
for the survivors to breathe into loving lungs.

So long as this tired heart pumps and this feeble mind fires faint
pulses of electricity. This mind (at rest?) goes at night to the exit
the subway exit with its stenciled 1-9 for all to see.
Moments before, 9:01 A.M. I’m there with that businessman,
seeking escape. We push against that exit, its cold steel fingers refusing
to allow us to go back, to get back into the darkened cave
below the city. There I push, tears welling, with an exhausted throng rocking
behind me, all pushing, pushing at the exit. Cold refusal a constant. Amongst it all
Thy rod, thy staff.

Reading "Service" by Marcus Luttrell

Just a quick note. I started reading Marcus Luttrell's "Service" the other day, and I am incredibly moved by the first few chapters. The story picks up where "Lone Survivor" ends. Marcus, the only survivor of Operation Redwing, is desperately working to rejoin the SEALs and continue to serve his country as an elite soldier. "Love Survivor" has the ability to change the ways in whick you understand selflessness, and I am sure "Service" will foster a longing to work harder to serve your fellow human beings.

Here is a quote from early on, one I love: "In failing in a task, in meeting a serious setback or a defeat on a mission or in our careers, we come out the other side changed. If we don’t, we’ve failed again."




(PS ... I know I need to write a post on ch. 3 of "Gatsby")

The Great Gatsby (Ch. 2) ((May contain spoilers))

Chapter 2 of "The Great Gatsby" is one of the harshest criticisms of the casual predatory nature of mankind I have read of in any novel. I read this chapter and shiver at the pure ruthlessness of Tom Buchanan as he picks up his toys, smashes them, and moves on, sans empathy. 


The chapter begins in "a valley of ashes — a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air."


This is the description of Hell on earth, a world where the poor and working class have been forgotten. This is where the famed, and often over-cited eyes of Doctor T.J. Eckleburg--an unambiguous metaphor for God--faded, a remnant of a man who may have "sank down himself into eternal blindness, or forgot them and moved away." Here a "small foul river," an allusion to the river Styx, separates the world of the living ... from the world of the dead. It is here that Tom--Zeus-like in his arrogance--brings Nick along to once again steal Myrtle Wilson--in a sort of reverse-Persephone abduction--from the land of the dead in order to use her (and abuse her) before dropping her, broken, back into her ash-heap. 


As I read the chapter, the description of George Wilson stands out. George is the living dead, a zombie, a ghost, a shade of humanity, "a blond, spiritless man, anaemic, and faintly handsome." This is the man Tom can simply step on, destroy, and steal from ... without remorse. When Myrtle Wilson sees Tom of the White Palace in the Valley, she simply walks "through her husband as if he were a ghost." Once Tom has what he wants, his toy for the night, he departs with Nick in tow, leaving the anaemic George to breathe in the ashes and "bleak dust." And with a parting shot, Tom adds to Nick, "'[George]’s so dumb he doesn’t know he’s alive.'” Dumb? Maybe not. Powerless? Yes. 


This is where the chapter takes on its character for me. The motif of used material, used matter, of the waste left behind, becomes so apparent. 


Myrtle decides she wants a dog once she arrives in New York with Tom and Nick. Myrtle states, "'I want to get one of those dogs .... I want to get one for the apartment. They’re nice to have — a dog.'" Tom later refers to the dog as "a bitch" before decisively insulting the seller. Sadly, Tom sees Myrtle in the same way he sees that dog. Myrtle is "nice to have" in Tom's mind.


This is the crux of the chapter. There is a world of used materials, the world where the waste resides and the waste is simply forgotten. 


Later, as Nick gets drunk--for the second time in his life--the lines become blurred, and the darker side of this Tom's tryst merges clearly and instantly. Tom becomes bored as Myrtle's "laughter, her gestures, her assertions [become] more violently affected moment by moment, and as she [expands] the room [grows] smaller around her, until she [seems] to be revolving on a noisy, creaking pivot through the smoky air." The drunkenness breaking down walls, the lies flowing, the "little dog was sitting on the table looking with blind eyes through the smoke, and from time to time groaning faintly," along with Myrtle's "impressive hauteur" all lead to a brutal and quite utter revelation of Tom's true nature, as the lying vivisector. 


Myrtle, Tom's newest soon-to-be-broken toy, idiotically, drunkenly decides to assert her place in Tom's life. The "couple" begin "discussing, in impassioned voices, whether Mrs. Wilson [has] any right to mention Daisy’s name. 'Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!' [shouts] Mrs. Wilson. 'I’ll say it whenever I want to! Daisy! Dai ——'
          Making a short deft movement, Tom Buchanan [breaks] her nose with his open hand."


The girl from the ash-heap does not get to run away with Zeus. The girl from the ash-heap is left to fix her face and crawl, Leda-like, to another room. 


The happy party ends with Nick's confused and aimless departure, only to find himself "lying half asleep in the cold lower level of the Pennsylvania Station, staring at the morning Tribune, and waiting for the four o’clock train." Another bit of waste at the end of a chapter where everyone has been abused by the "hulking" Tom Buchanan. 


To come back to the metaphors and motifs: here is a chapter focused on used materials. This the world of the poor, the broken, the misbegotten. It also stands in stark contrast to the palaces of chapter one. The forgotten world of the Valley should frighten the reader. Sadly, it's also a reality. Nick continues on his journey to learn the lesson, the Truth, he comes to to understand at the end of the novel: ‘Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone …. just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.’


________________________


Coming back to "Achtung Baby" for a moment; the second song, "Even Better Than The Real Thing" has an allusion to the fall of Icarus: "We're free to fly the crimson sky / The sun won't melt our wings tonight." Just as Icarus wants to escape Crete, Myrtle wants to escape the Valley of Ashes. But she learns her waxen wings, her belief in Tom's lies, melt when scorched by the cruel sun of reality. 


The song, an ironic tune about "virtual reality" is the perfect companion for this chapter. The irony of a "virtual reality" being "the real thing / Even better than the real thing" is tragically missed poor Myrtle. 

I hope you will continue to add your comments, your alternative readings, and what you understand about this incredibly import chapter from a great American novel ... 

The Great Gatsby (Chapter 1)

Here we go. It's time to reread Gatsby. I hope you'll read along and share your thoughts .... 

‘Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone …. just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had’ -Nick Carraway. As I began re-reading Gatsby this week, this line jumped off the page. It’s the book for me this time. It’s the core of the novel. I’m not sure why I never focused on it in the past. 


The first chapter of The Great Gatsby never really inspired me. I was always continuously annoyed by the characters. Nick Carraway, our partially-involved narrator reflecting on his life and his personal ethos, the somewhat anemic lurker who watches and listens as he meets the horrible Buchanans. However, I think my frustration with Nick stems from his confusion when meeting Tom, Daisy, and Jordan. This time, the chapter transformed for me.I am confused, so confused, right alongside Nick. I want to tap him and ask, “Are you catching all of this?” with my eyebrows raised.

When Daisy asks, ‘What do people plan?’ as she lounges in her cavernous mansion, I have a hard time caring about her, yet there is something in her voice--it’s the sound of a broken woman. Now, as I read this chapter, I hear Daisy’s anger, her pain, her learned apathy.

Jordan … oh, what is there to say about Jordan? I have a feeling she’s just there for the drinks.

Tom, the hulking bastard he is, once again grates on my every nerve. I can picture him physically moving Nick around, pointing to all of the things he has been able to buy over time. Tom’s house, so full and so empty, resembles a hollowed arena for me, a place filled with hot air because nothing truly has meaning after the event. I can hear the the words of Shelley whispering through the open windows as the smell of the  Long Island Sound wafts into the room:

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: / Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" / Nothing beside remains. Round the decay / Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare / The lone and level sands stretch far away.

As we are introduced to the complexities of East and West Egg and the lives of the Buchanans, I find myself repulsed by Tom Buchanan in particular. He becomes a metaphor, something to be feared, something to understand. I want to learn his face, with its “arrogant eyes” dominating “a body capable of enormous leverage--a cruel body.”

Finally, as we meet Gatsby, straining his arms, looking out at “a single green light, minute and far away,” I am reminded once again why I love this book: it’s romantic; it’s honest; it’s … a novel of summer. I, once again, fell in love with this line: “Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.”

I mentioned in a previous post that I wanted to compare the book to U2’s album, “Achtung Baby.” Well, I will add a few thoughts on those songs and their relationship to the book as I go along. (This idea was inspired by the trailer for the new Gatsby film. The trailer features a new version of “Love is Blindness,” the final song from the album.)

Nick Carraway is new to New York, a Zoo York on many levels … and the album’s first song “Zoo Station” features a lyric that echoes the themes of Gatsby. I am looking forward to tuning into the “Zoo Station” with Mr. Carraway and with you ....

Time is a train
Makes the future the past
Leaves you standing in the station
Your face pressed up against the glass





What are your thoughts on chapter 1? 
Please share ... 

The Great Gatsby. (It's time.)

OK, if you have not seen the "Gatsby" trailer, here's your chance:

I am hoping many of you will be willing to read (/reread) this work of genius with me. I have to add, I am planning on aligning the novel to U2's album "Achtung Baby." Watch the trailer, and you'll know why.

After you watch, what did you think? Are you ready? Will it be "good"?

Reading John Green's "The Fault in Our Stars"

As the tide washed in, the Dutch Tulip Man faced the Ocean: 
'Conjoiner rejoinder poisoner concealer revelator. Look at it, rising up and rising down, taking everything with it.' 

     'What’s that?' Anna asked. 

     'Water,' the Dutchman said. 'Well, and time.'

           -Peter Van Houten, An Imperial Affliction

This epigraph hooked me immediately. John Green, following in the footsteps of F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby," decided to begin his novel with a quote from a fictional text. By fictional I mean, "An Imperial Affliction" does not exist. Well, it does, though .... inside "The Fault in Our Stars." Hooked yet?

I read John Green's "The Fault in Our Stars" (TFiOS) a few weeks ago, and I must say, I can't stop thinking about this book. I had started "The Hunger Games" (along with a bazillion other people) and was instantly horrified by the concept. I was not horrified by the commentary offered by the novel--I was horrified by the obsession with the violence depicted in the novels. I was horrified by the truth it suggests about modern culture. "The Hunger Games" ... as a film ... is simply ironic for me. The book is a critique on our desire to to bathe in blood and violence, yet the film acts out the book in a way that abandons the commentary and simply performs, leaving us to become, once again, members of an audience, cheering for those in the arena. (More on this thinking in a future post.)

Back to TFiOS. I can't stop thinking about Hazel and her profound, intellectual approaches to her situation. Hazel, 16, the novel's narrator, is fighting and slowly losing her battle with cancer. As a narrator, Hazel has the ability to transfer her fears to the reader. She reminds me of Hamlet in many ways. There are speeches within the text that echo the existential soliloquies of Hamlet. However, I find Hazel far braver than the Dark Prince of Denmark. Hazel desperately wants to live her life, to explore the beauty of a world with boundless experiences, even though she is deeply aware of her own finite amount of time here to explore those experiences. 


“There will come a time when all of us are dead. All of us. There will come a time when there are no human beings remaining to remember that anyone ever existed or that our species ever did anything. There will be no one left to remember Aristotle or Cleopatra, let alone you. Everything that we did and built and wrote and thought and discovered will be forgotten and all of this will have been for naught. Maybe that time is coming soon and maybe it is millions of years away, but even if we survive the collapse of our sun, we will not survive forever. There was time before organisms experienced consciousness, and there will be time after. And if the inevitability of human oblivion worries you, I encourage you to ignore it. God knows that’s what everyone else does.” 

In allusion to Shakespeare's "Julius Caesar," Green adapts his title from lines delivered by Cassius to Brutus, "Men at some time are masters of their fates: / The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, / But in ourselves, that we are underlings" (I.ii). I guess the question is, What happens when we are absolutely, profoundly, NOT masters of our own fate?


I can't stand spoilers ... and I do not want to ruin a great book, but I can say, there is a love story here. The story of Hazel and Gus set against the stark reality of cancer moves me. This book has me re-examining my own relationships, my perspectives on life and death, and the realities faced by young people every day. 

Here is John Green reading the first chapter. 






I look forward to your comments. 

"The Frailty of Everything"

The end of a year, a full rotation of the cycle, the knowledge of an end, the hope of the new day--all these ideas echo within us as we face our future. Time, luckily, still pulls us along ... along this journey.


This reflection shared by Viggo Mortensen reminds me of the deep reflective thoughts Cormac McCarthy inferentially asks his readers to follow after reading The Road. 


“The frailty of everything revealed at last. Old and troubling issues resolved into nothingness and night. The last instance of a thing takes the class with it. Turns out the light and is gone. Look around you. Ever is a long time. But the boy knew what he knew. That ever is no time at all.” --The Road, Cormac McCarthy

And, please, carry the fire--carry the fire.