"What an interesting job you have," people would tell me, "lots to write about."  And yet I never really had much the impulse.  It wouldn't have been appropriate anyway, and when I realized that, I felt better about my boredom and what I'd perceived as my own laziness.   It was a great flaw to find within, though, if you thought of yourself as a novelist.

What I suppose interested me and caught my eye was the human condition, that sway between the egos and the knowledge of illusion.  It was more interesting to me that when it came down to it, maybe there wasn't so much 'self' as one might have imagined.  This was heavy news to take, but the valuable upswing was that it made the myth come alive, seeing, for example, the presence of a Jesus of Nazareth caught not in ancient history but alive and present in the reality of the world.

I didn't mind the night shift, that place and time where people unburdened themselves a bit, relaxed, took a breath, admitted their concerns.  That was the stuff that brought out the importance of my own perceived deeper task, the truth of my own 'work.'

That was the book I wanted to write, a book about healing the hurt that comes with having to subscribe to the world of an important ego, an overrated self-importance, knowing that first hand.  When I clung to the earlier mode of writing, of believing I would increase my workman writer skills describing the people I saw, it never went anywhere.  Or, rather, if a nugget might emerge from out of it, that was directly related to the spiritual questions, to the presence of something beyond the normal, moving to embrace the mythic.

Myths might be for children and crazy people, unrealistic people, it might seem in the common cultural belief.  But I would politely disagree, holding them as necessary medicine to guide us through our days, giving us that rare sense of purpose.

It takes sometimes a good fairy tale, like that of the Beatitudes, to let one realize life.  It takes that transformation of seeing through the things of the solid fixed self that turns out to be less important than one might have thought.

What do you do, then, with that knowledge?  Well, I suppose you transform yourself.  You transform yourself as a writer, and that perhaps is the kind of writer you always wanted to be, a wise one, if nothing else.  A wise writer wouldn't pick on people's faults and sins, because he must sigh and realize that they are his own and that he is responsible for such and must only mirror the divine love for a flawed 'sinful' being.   Dostoevsky for all his brilliant powers at sketching people, this was for him what it all came down to, a small chapter in a long book, about a monk, echoing an older wisdom  about the nature of the human being in the world.

So it is that the earlier writings are almost a cause of embarrassment, childish, foolish ramblings, another outburst of the illusory self-important self.  The soul is tamer and more enduring than that, above such complaints.  It would value 'a putting away of childish things.'

Some of us go to monasteries and divinity schools, and some of us, as Dostoevsky put it, after a life of it, 'sojourn in the world.'  Is the artist in a similar pursuit, through art realizing the same transformative and seemingly radical viewpoint?  But then what is there to make art about?

When things are clear as mud and the future uncertain, I find a book off my father's shelf.  Alan Watts' appropriately illustrated  "Myth and Ritual in Christianity", with its beautiful green cloth cover, fits the bill as the earth turns toward bare-treed November and the time to 'hold fast to the center.'  This is a book which emphasizes the Christian mythos in keeping with a Perennial Philosophy that people all around the world and in all time come up with in the forms of myth.  There is an emphasis not on the Greek, Roman, Western system of thought, of history and theological classifications and metaphysics that aren't all that metaphysical.  Our methods bring the problems of God and mystery down to our own egotistical frame of mind.   But here, the emphasis, for Watts, is on poetry and myth, on understandings that live a lively life in the present moment without being weighted down with all that terminology of the modern professional life.  Let the poetry and myth of a good story stand as it is, without having to drag it into history and the dry thought of the news and the reaction to it.

If Ishmael, of Moby Dick, is feeling that cold grey November of the soul, he's probably not the only one.  And to the remedy, a good myth.  Melville took to the sea for a creative backdrop.  He let the sea and the people who made it their profession serve as an open meditation of many voices.  There's Ahab, trying to make sense of it all, not unlike the way we do living as adult professionals.  There is Queequeg, who is happy with his own little idols and myths.

Myths, they don't make it on to the daily news.  But there is one that's stuck with me since childhood.

The basics of it are this:  Dionysos is hanging out on some cliffs above the sea, and a ship of pirates goes by;  'he must be some rich prince, so let's take him hostage,' they say, which they do;  they bind their young prince to the mast, and he doesn't seem particularly bothered;  in fact, not long afterward strange things begin to happen on the ship;  grape vines grow, up the mast, and all throughout the rigging;  the young man is now unfettered, relaxed, his bindings evaporated;  and then it gets scary for the pirates;  water vessels turn to overflowing wine, and a lion appears on the ship;  all the while the old helmsman has been in disagreement with the pirates;  the pirates, terrified, jump into the ocean;  in a good treatment of their hardness and extremism, they are turned into porpoises, flesh once again turned to good purpose;  and just before the old helmsman is about to bow out, apologetically, the god Dionysos, having understood the old man's heart, commands him to hang out and stay awhile.  And I imagine that as the sailing day reached the dusk, they had some wine together.  They were content within their own transforming mythical poetic story, in time but out of time as we experience it through our senses and the historical account of the ego.

Wine was had, that day on the ship with the divine God and the reasonably humble helmsman, who, after all, was the helmsman, even if people are pirates sometimes, and worse.

I wonder if there's a better myth suited to the world right now and all its news stories.

Eric Asimov, of the New York Times  has been brilliant as always with what he does  His wine school is now tasting the wines of Gigondas, a favorite alternative to the old Pope's favorite.  He's reminded me, in his twelve essential wines piece, of the value of a Chianti in one's quiver.  (We agree on the Beaujolais and the Macon white Burgandy chardonnays.)  And they are true middle of the road, middle of the palate reds to which no terms need be put upon.  They are light and dancing;  the fruit is balanced with the tactile experience, with that nascent source of all things grow, as if one could taste the acorn, the pine cone, the rocks and sediment where a small creature might be happy along the edge of a stream or down under the roots of a great tree, or where earth has been turned over to plant something anew and good, or, where the earth has received some form of its own history.

In what terms can we express the reality of life?  Sometimes, like wine, we need the leap of faith that is the truth wrapped in myth, perceived and understood at deeper levels of consciousness.

Oddly, exposure to myth allows us to comprehend the truth of another person.  With a head full of Cuchulains and Quixotes, gods who mingle intimately with shepherds and shepherdesses, we get the human psyche.  From our visions emerge the clean person standing there before you, unbound, unpacked from that which is imposed.

Let's see... busy night.  3 top, 2 top, 2 top, followed by 3 top on 60 in the wine room, then a 4 out front on 54, a three on 52, bar,      Then a 6 top, and then a 9 top back in the room, 2 2 tops at the bar, a gal from Australia.

I hit the Safeway after work.  Sliced turkey breast, pre-made grass-fed beef burger patties, ezekial english muffins, biotene toothpaste.  My back is feeling better now that I'm up and at my shift, and now it's after my shift.  They're washing floors, the aisles are jammed with restocking carts and plastic crates, plastic wrapped items in their boxes.  I'm on my way home after a busy Saturday night.

Bread Soda, I drop in, have one glass of wine, sit outside on a high stool, call it a night, Zee Burger, cab, talk with a best college bud when I get in.

In such a job you fall into a rhythm.  And it's not bad, because it can fit in with what Alan Watts puts into terms in Myth and Ritual in Christianity, with, say a modest reading of the sermons of Jesus brought down to earth.  Thus did I set out to be a kind of spiritual counselor, if I were to follow through with my deeper values.

It's clear in Dostoevsky.  The writer's task to inhabit that mysterious blank space of the collective subconscious.  To inhabit, and through that, find the dreams and myths that occur spontaneously, the collective of good mental health.  One has to go through that territory, of the common experiences, the dreamer's dreams, the not-wanting-to-get-up-out-of-bed, the Monday morning, of the common things of heartbreak, to find the right perspective to find the myths of good health, of finding the true person within to base a life upon.  The territory, the tale, it has its ultimate purpose, its way of sorting things out.

Perhaps it is not the point, as much, the events of the laboratory, but the myths themselves.  The laboratory must be shown, dramatized, to show the fullness of the myth, its iceberg depths, but it's the result that are important.  The Christian myth has that succinctness.

Well, of course, take Dostoevsky...  Of course a writer is going to appear as a bit of an odd bird.  Of course the expansions and contractions of life's seasons will lead him to a particular set of material, a seriousness.  He'll come upon the things that need, or that already have their own form, at least when the statement has the pithiness it calls for.  Dostoevsky slips it into the middle of the Karamazov murder tale, lessons of the Elder Father Zosima, the life of the Russian monk.  Such a clean pure statement it overwhelms us with its simplicity and its power.  Where did he dream up the potential of the story, the elements balanced...  It had to come from his heart, on top of visiting the monastery, etc.

When you're doing that work it makes sense from psychological readings that the demons come out, when you're putting an end to a status quo of rehashing the same material and moving on to the deeper meaning, the deeper value.

My tale of a young writer, it could be squeezed in to fit within the grander more mature design of a consideration of God's love for the sinful, and this is the story he has to tell, even if he wishes it had all gone smoother the first time around and that he hadn't been so self-defeating, so shy, such a fool before one incarnation of that love for him.  This speaks of the sin of life, of turning away, or missing, or misinterpreting, or not having the faith and the belief to keep one calm even though one walks through the shadow of the valley of death.  He was able to carry that love for another being in his own flawed way, and his flaws, of course, make him real to the reader.  There's room for lots of different interpretations, nuances, instances, examples, but under them all a steady flow.

The love only gets there, only reaches its destination, I have to wonder, when it matures or rather transforms into something greater and deeper, more a thing worthy of the words of Paul.   There's reason to be happy about that, to find joy in that, vulnerable thing though it may be, to the extent that a human being can handle or carry such or maintain a daily working understanding of it.   Mature love does not want for anything, does not ask for anything, and in an odd way it has its roots all the way back during the period of a young man's errors, the misinterpreted unselfishness, the passivity, the lack of aggressive action.  The point is, one should always be a peacemaker.  And peacemaking can only come through the deeper understanding, the forgiveness, if you will.

But yes, what does redemption look like?  What does it come as?  Does it feel like the joyful relief of sex or a good bowel movement?  Does it come in the form of a new job, or new recognition, some Job-like return to the original bountiful order of things?  Does it come in monetary form, a new paycheck from a new benefactor?  Does the Princess come back into your life, thinking out loud.  Or does it not just finally come as a form of inner peace and satisfaction, that life really is more beautiful, that the human soul itself is really far more beautiful than you might have thought, that it could endure things you wouldn't want to befall you.

Writers are still drawing lessons and interpreting from the Bible and the Gospels and all that.  They come upon the things that dumbfound them, that take a lot of rest and quiet and meditation to see, the salt of life experience on top of that.  Things that might make you shudder or tremble, or say, 'no, no, who am I, a sinful man, I am not worthy to carry the light and the way, leave me be,' but still called upon by this man The Son, Jesus, his lesson.  What can you say to people?  What can you tell them?  How do you attempt to hold on to such things throughout the day?   A meaningful poetic fiction of the highest order, and yet, true because of its beauty and its beauty as a theory.

That's the credential, I suppose, you finally earn.   Some poor human interpretation here on earth.  Maybe overstepping itself.  But truly one's own being, the honest thing within.

Yeah, I was a weird bird, I picked out this house to live on a hill when it would have been much more convenient and happier and funner and friendlier down in the dorms on campus.  Some romantic notion, I suppose, that I had no idea how it would turn out.  I started on a path.  I might not have even needed to take it, just done it all right and happily and socially, normally, the first time around.  But, alas, perhaps self-defeating, perhaps prone to some negativity, I didn't.   And I am repenting now, in my own quiet way.  At least to myself and the powers that be above us.  A sinful man, called upon to tell the truth.


I suppose there's that element in Karamazov, something to the effect that one carries on, like Alyosha, that there will be sorrow suffering, but that you'll make the world a better place, as the old saying goes.  The odd bird who doesn't quite know what to do with himself, who's option is to maintain a kind of quiet monkish habit after trying to engage with the world on its own terms.

Sketch, from The Dying Gaul, a Sunday night in mid-October:

It's a nice modest little seat to watch history from, the little bar.  The end of the night the Norman man of the Breton woman who works with us now comes to pick her up, and Jean Mark shares with us tales of DC restaurants going back to the early '70s back when you were a tux and made good money.  The legendary Cantina D'Italia, down by M and 20th, run by a crazy old little Italian guy who liked his pleasures, closed on weekends, paid vacation, closed for Christmas, the good old days.  Stories of Kissinger, accompanied by 'the giraffe,' in need of being educated on tipping, Sinatra, snapping his fingers, but at the end of the night a good pal offering the key to his New York penthouse, after $4000 of caviar at Chez Jacqueline.   He has long gray hair, pulled back, a white blue striped pullover, an ancient's good taste in bracelet, a wooden beaded necklace revealing an understanding of old healing magic.  His photographs hung framed on the walls of the old Au Pied Du Cochon.   He is a strong man, with a strong skull and shoulders, whom one could imagine ancestral work by the sea.  American white wines are full of sulfites, and every bar has a pinot grigio, and because he does not eat meat, only fish, cheese too, he does not often drink reds, though he appreciates a good American red like a Montellana.  (sp?)   He too has the look of the Gaul from the statue, with a hint of olive in his healthy skin.

It's a busy night for a cold weather sunday when seasons change abruptly.  A Russian couple with a boy and a girl, seen previously, make their way into the back room at the first table, turning the lights on as they sit down, very pleasant people.  Snails, rosé, foie gras, then veal cheeks and the seafood special, monkfish medallion with mussel and lobster with a saffron mussel sauce and forbidden rice, green beans.  Two men sit for a glass of wine, just as the door has opened, having gone shoe shopping at Aldo.  They think their reservation is for downstairs.   Let them come, let them sit, it's good to be busy, even if the guy the night before did a lousy job of stocking up, leaving the old man (me) to lug up a case and a half of assorted soda, six packs of beer, on top of the usual dearth of back up wine to fix.



I remain feeling realigned.  I have the moral strength to get up to face the tedium of going down into the office building part of the city for a tedious therapy session, because I have found that which sustains, a sensibility that fits in with what the old monk in Karamazov is talking about, do not be afraid of  men's sin, because this is the highest form of God's love, as it is attuned to that of the Son.   Furthermore, take up the sins of men as being your own sins, and indeed they are.


Monday is a strange day.  The 11AM session, then back to work when the gears will be revved a good eight hours later, a sustained run of it for four more after it gets busy.   There needs to be a lull in there somewhere, the body tells you.

Sunday afternoon.  I do not want to go back to work.

But once you are aligned, things line up.  Strange.  You read the chapters about the Russian monk in Karamazov, on the nature of humanity and sin and how that relates to creatures and children, happy, pure of heart, not to be disturbed.  Do not be afraid of the sinful, but take it upon yourself as a sinner that their faults are your own, and once you see that, that changes everything.

The world of people struggles with itself for a way to treat the environment.  Respect the world of nature as another living being, as it is comprised itself of creatures and animate objects with soul, or some form of soul, and the world of nature is well.  How do we live upon the earth?  Is that situation to a spiritual condition, one we are clearly nudged to see, except we like to blind to that and consume and consume, pave it, drive over it all, not walk through.  At least there could be a more respectful way, don't you think.  A way to scale back, to live as a human might if he too were some form of animal in nature.  Clear drinking water, creatures and crops to tend to for sustenance and satisfaction, villages with school houses...  It seems I didn't grow up in a town too far away from that, somehow, in another era.

But instead, the corporate model, short term profit, political power, money to move agendas seeking more profit.   Too obvious to state, too childish, too far too impractical, too ridiculous to be heard, and yet it speaks to the nature of the human spirit, speaks of the necessity of recognizing his status as the lone sinner in the world, in need of making amends and shuddering at himself and the shadow he casts.   His arrogance only grows, unfortunately.  If it's not this great thing he builds to solve a problem he, not recognizing his sin, he builds another.  On and on.

Oh, believe me, I too have lived as a selfish consumer, arrogant, pleasure-seeking, uncertain of my self.  It's hard not to, finding the pressure to succeed, but not always given the deeper picture of what that might be.  Mainstream benchmarks.  And it all makes one subtly depressed, always fighting...

You're supposed to be a man, right, and control things, make things happen, dominate, do battle.  You're a madman if you don't, lazy, a foolish idiot, a disappointment.  Got time on your hands?  Go do something big, go earn, spend.   Use pleasure as a guideline.  

But did we choose how we came into the world, to which parents in what situation, of what kind of temperament.


...  Ah, sins are almost laughable.  Mine are, were.  I had fine comedic talent for them.  I almost outdid myself, kind of like Dostoevsky gambling.  Brilliant timing.

And feeling shame, I did not want to admit.  Like Job, why did all this misery unending fall upon me? Here, Job presages the way of Jesus Christ, at least that's the hint I get.  Man, not being there when the foundations of the world were lain and set, does not realize--what an archaic statement it sounds like upon our modern ears--the nature of his sin.   God's restoration of Job resonates with what will come later...

I wrote it all out, as best I could, sort of like Job.  But failed to see the crucial bit of information.  When I got depressed, that was not seeing a way out of it.

And then, my frame of reference seemed to change.  I got aligned with that person I'd always been, sweet, gentle, peaceful, a friend of animals and nature, that kid who grew up in the country with woods around him, a healthy swamp with cattails, a brook running behind the house, four great seasons doing their thing, cows out in the fields, corn, pasture, places to cross country ski and pick berries.

Is that all a writer is, a country boy reminiscing...