I can’t breathe
.can’t breathe
…..breathe
…….can’t
……….I
…….can’t
…..breathe
.can’t breathe
I can’t breathe

I can’t breathe
.can’t breathe
…..breathe
…….can’t
……….I
…….can’t
…..breathe
.can’t breathe
I can’t breathe

 

° ° °

 

……………….I can’t breathe I can’t breathe?
…………I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I:
…………can’t breathe, “I can’t breathe” I can’t breathe,
I can’t? breathe, I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t breathe
……………………………I can’t breathe I can’t
B.       R.       E.      A.      T.      H.      E.

 

° ° °

 

I can’t
bre
at
he

I can’t
bre
at
he

 

I can’t
bre
at
h

e

Our new climate, the paper says, will silence many songbirds. In a lifetime or two, all we’ll hear are hawks and crows. Crows and hawks are all I heard, anyway, having lost my high-frequency hearing long ago to rock and roll. Though it may have been the rifle range at summer camp. Or, a decade later, the hard enterprise of my hometown’s shipyard.

It’s a strong habit, not hearing, and my new hearing aids alone are not enough. My audiologist says I’ll catch myself saying, “What?” when a moment’s reflection might have allowed my brain to process sounds into comprehension.

What does it all mean? The leaves now rustle. The house settles and my knees creak. A scarlet tanager sings from a wood’s high catafalque.

3PictureScarletTanager

Photo of a dead scarlet tanager from USGS Bee Inventory and Monitoring Lab. Used by permission.

While we were biking in Assateague Island’s woods, my friend pointed out an indigo bunting. We also saw lots of willets among the sandpipers and gulls when we got off our bikes and walked a stretch of quiet ocean beach.

My friend and his wife got me more interested in birds. I resurrected my bird apps and bought my first bird book. Hearing and identifying bird songs intrigues me more than identifying birds by sight. I’m glad the apps and the book include snatches of song and other sounds made by many of the more common birds.

We also saw lots of snowy egrets. I didn’t have my camera along, so I’ve included a shot I took earlier this year.

3PictureSnowyEgret

Biking around Assateague Island, some friends and I saw a couple of Delmarva Fox Squirrels. They’re longer and more gray than the gray squirrels that overrun the rest of Virginia. Those gray squirrels are really kind of a brown you’d associate with the plumage of many bird species’ young. The Delmarva squirrels also don’t get all frenetic. It’s like they’re content to live their life on island time.

3PictureAssateague01

Speaking of adjusting for island life, the house in the picture below traded in its chimney for an osprey nest.

3PictureAssateague02

I think I could get used to island life, too.

Thy will be done

Woke up from a dream that caused me to wonder, right off:

Have I done
a single
will

?

Will I have

?
done

° ° °

A white policeman shot an unarmed black man, triggering the 1943 Harlem race riot. Baldwin’s Notes of a Native Son – sweet, somehow raw essays with seemingly simple rhetorical movements.

The Americans in Baldwin’s Paris, the “little band of bohemians” who share “a total confusion about the nature of experience.” They discount the power of society because they can’t believe “that time [i.e., a society’s powerful history] is real.” Without society they are rootless, unable to find themselves. With society they are trapped, because “society is never anything less than a perfect labyrinth of limitations.”

Experience, if permitted, leads to untenable associations. Experience will always teach me that I killed the Christ.

No loving mercy unless you need it. But experience for Baldwin’s bohemians “is nothing more than sensation – so many sensations, added up like arithmetic, give on the rich, full life.” It’s not even a particularly creative way of avoiding experience.

° ° °

The notion of travel and the notion of staying put. The cosmopolite and the provincial. On the one hand, travel gives perspective. Homesickness may be the ultimate perspective. No. But it suggests it. I’m homesick for somewhere I’ve never been.

Staying home, on the other hand, and being washed in love by the differences each day makes to something that, to others, always looks the same. The place takes on a kind of holiness, which bears some relation to nostalgia. Maybe nostalgia is holiness’s demiurge. Holiness’s half light.

Recalled myself riding the Pentran Bus to the shipyard, marveling at the different faces of the James River. The gray alone is a lifetime’s obsession. “You can’t step into the same river twice.” Popper thought Heraclitus’s adage was Plato’s obsession. Maybe so. The gray gradations, some leaning against a blue buoy, some clinging to a green lover. Red is never arrived at. Not until the evening bus when the sunset sometimes skips across the river like a hot rock. God in a dream dropping down Jacob’s ladder.

Robert Lax this morning:

each day
the same
walk up
the hill

same turns
same shad
ow of the
tree

each sta
tion of
the way

takes on
its own

set of
meanings

– Poem 22 in A Thing that Is

° ° °

3PictureWashPost20140812FrontPgWhat is the distinction between universal truths and tribalism? We can’t exist in ideas, even ideals, alone. We’d lose the scent of our identity, the roots that ground and feed us. The soil of good and evil. The mystery of the past.

We can’t exist on tribes alone. We’d lose our identity, the sun and air that we all share. The promise, the mystery of a deeper past.

The difference between the Big Bang (universalism) and the first motion not a moment after (tribalism).

The militarized police in Ferguson. Blacks may see it as an expression of white fear, power, and repression – of tribalism and its dehumanization of outsiders. Whites may see it as a tool of the state, the federal enforcement of universal truths that would take away their tribe. “The Romans shall come and take away both our place and nation” (John 11). Kill the Christ, Caiaphas counseled.

Your basic cop is underpaid. They’re told to take on more than even teachers.

° ° °

Experience, for Baldwin, can be avoided. One then develops a narrowed, occluded soul. One becomes Jason Compson. But experience, for Baldwin, can lead to destruction, as it does in Another Country for Rufus. Or it can lead to humility and the first hints of freedom and self-knowledge, as it does for Ida, Cass, Eric, and Vivaldo.

° ° °

Isn’t beauty in the tribe?

Isn’t holiness in the universal?

Is this our problem: we find beauty in ideas and holiness in our tribes?

(life)
is
not
hol
y

be
cause
it
is

beau
ti
ful

it
is
beau
ti
ful

be
cause
it
is

hol
y

– Poem 27 in A Thing that Is

The circle from hope to patience to experience (transformation) to hope again in Romans 5:1-5 is Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey, depicted also as a circle. From hope to hope, from home to home.

England and nowhere

Know the place for the first time

Heaven, perhaps, is where God helps us sort out the slides to share our trip to the audience we never quite locate on earth.

On earth as it is in heaven

[My journal entry this morning between “thy will be done” and “on earth as it is in heaven.” Video is of the James River this past spring. I took it while walking my parents’ dog. Photo is a detail from the front page of the August 12, 2014 issue of the Washington Post.]

We stayed this week in something like a bungalow. Three bedrooms, two set inside the roof without even the headroom dormers would afford. A single bath for the five of us. And the best part Victoria and I didn’t discover until the second day – a screened porch, just outside the kitchen window.

3PictureChincoteaguePorch01

I’m not sure I lived the past this house suggested. Chincoteague Island’s dignified, modest homes just off the bay reminded me of Hilton Village, a World War I-era planned community that surrounds the Episcopal church we attended when I was a kid. My parents and I leapfrogged Hilton when I was not yet two, moving from a downriver apartment to Brandon Heights, an uptown development with bigger houses, where my siblings were born.

3PictureChincoteaguePorch2

Everything was not a block from the tidal James – the apartment, the church, the house in Brandon Heights, and the house we moved to in Riverside even farther from downtown Newport News when I was six, the house my parents still live in today. It doesn’t take much to wade in again. The slam of a screen door, or the cry of a gull.

3PictureChincoteaguePorch03

3PictureJamesBaldwinI read a scene tonight towards the end of Another Country that got me thinking about self-government. James Baldwin’s 1961 novel, I acknowledge, has nothing directly to do with government  or politics of any kind. But any novel portraying great anguish well and offering a glimmer of hope is a paean to self-government. It answers “maybe” or even “yes” to Alexander Hamilton’s question at the outset of the Federalist Papers: Can people govern themselves?

Self-government’s survival, in other words, depends on whether I’m willing to live out some anguish and accept my humanity.

In the scene, a character, with a friend in an art gallery, comes to realize that she has helped to create the husband she has grown to despise.

“And I saw that I’d loved him like that, like a child, and now the bill for all that dreaming had come in. How can one have dreamed so long? And I thought it was real. Now I don’t know what’s real.” (404)

I’ll quote from the characters’ more theoretical observations and reflect on self-government.

“You think that there isn’t any hope for us?”

“Hope?” The word seemed to bang from wall to wall. “Hope? No, I don’t think there’s any hope. We’re too empty here”— her eyes took in the Sunday crowd — “too empty — here.” She touched her heart. “This isn’t a country at all, it’s a collection of football players and Eagle Scouts. Cowards. We think we’re happy. We’re not. We’re doomed.” (406)

Government is messy because humanity is messy. There are two ways out. One is to escape from being human, to be transformed into something better – a saint, perhaps, or a god. The other is to redefine humanity to exclude the messy elements — that is, to define certain groups — groups to which I happily don’t belong — as subhuman.

No matter which of these two ways out I choose, I am drawn to one of two approaches to government. As the god superior to man or as the man superior to beasts, I and my fellow superiors can govern to enforce the gulf that separates us from the inferiors for the good of society. Or I can, perhaps in disgust, disclaim any role in governing.

Neither approach to government is self-government. Self-government requires my involvement and my humanity.

Self-government is personal. It’s not enough to espouse equality. It’s not enough to vote. Self-government insists that I become human. And to become human, I must own up to my part in humanity’s problems.

“You said once,” he said, “that you wanted to grow. Isn’t that always frightening? Doesn’t it always hurt?”

It was a question he was asking himself — of course; she turned toward him with a small, grateful smile, then turned to the painting again.

“I’m beginning to think,” she said, “that growing just means learning more and more about anguish. That poison becomes your diet — you drink a little of it every day. Once you’ve seen it, you can’t stop seeing it — that’s the trouble. And it can, it can” — she passed her hand wearily over her brow again — “drive you mad.” (405)

Self-government isn’t possible without personal growth, and growth isn’t possible without anguish and hope. Hope without anguish is immature hope – perhaps a necessary starting point, but untested and, if it stays untested for too long, dangerous. But anguish without hope leads to madness.

“You begin to see that you yourself, innocent, upright you, have contributed and do contribute to the misery of the world. Which will never end because we’re what we are.” (Id.)

Equality is hard work. It’s easy to espouse in theory but hard to admit in practice, when my equality with others includes aspects of humanity that offend me.

He watched her face from which the youth was now, before his eyes, departing; her girlhood, at last, was falling away from her. Yet, her face did not seem precisely faded, or, for that matter, old. It looked scoured, there was something invincibly impersonal in it. (405 – 406)

Public life is impersonal, and that impersonality can be either bad or good. Self-righteousness is impersonal because it treats the other as less than a person. But self-government is impersonal because it transcends personality. Self-government is based on a sacred truth, as the Declaration’s first draft puts it, that all men are created equal. Our essential equality, deeper than personality, is the basis for celebrating our diverse personalities and cultures – and for celebrating, ultimately, our common failings.

Only my personal anguish – only our collective personal anguish – can lead to the invincible, impersonal equality that makes self-government possible.

Self-government, then, doesn’t have much of a chance. But the stakes are too high for me not to take it personally.

Photo is of James Baldwin, 1924 – 1987.