O, Infinite Abyss...

He stood on stage in the rain in 1969

And played his horn until the jail

Walls fell like Jericho.

He stood with Black Panthers

And sat below Old Glory,

The Star Spangled Banner

Crawling through the crowd

Until men in suits took him away.

And he’d call crying, lost, and inebriated

In some room, with some people,

Who had something that’d make

Him forget about the family

In the hills, the howls and cackles

He ran past in Greenpoint on his way

From school. And they’d sit

In unmarked white cars outside

His white house out on the island,

Waiting for him to slip.

And he died in Paris and was born

Again out in the desert someplace

Where people go to think.

And now he sits at the table,

Eyeing their drinks, As if they were

Bombs set to explode.

And as the lightening advanced and retreated

Across the night, I was sure it existed off my energy.

It was my howl that rolled across the plains

And my tears that drowned the earth

And the beat of my heart pulsated pulsated pulsated

Beneath the ground, so that if you put your ear

To the road, you felt the palpitations of my spirit

Racing across the countryside, where two days before

I saw fireworks die in  the dark sad innocence of the night,

Their tentacles kissing your face reflected in the window

That now stood before me.

And each time the sky erupted and your eyes closed,

I feared they’d never open again,

Feared they’d never smile wistfully as the fireworks faded -

Praying the  reds blues greens yellows would  hover for an instant longer

Like hummingbirds above a flower, before decaying

Into the consciousness of the sky. And now as the fog

Rallies  beneath the fluorescence that hangs like a ceiling

Above the black road, I burst through the night, soaring

Beneath celestial conflagrations – each more ephemeral than the last.

Orange streetlight beams battle the haze, headlights drowning

And straining to hang onto outstretched asphalt hands.

I wasn’t here to decay into consciousness.

I was the Brahma, I was the life force and would not

Pause for evanescence, for mortality. I’d chase life

Through the heavens, and when I reached a dead end I’d abandon the car,

And when I reached the sea I’d abandon the shore,

And when I reached dawn I’d abandon time.

I could not be stopped and the wheels of my car devoured the darkness,

Each bend and hill a hindrance to existence. As the fog rolled in

Like tumbleweeds and the lightening poured forth

And the grass danced to the rise and fall of the wind,

A train fractured the symphony of my velocity.

I would triumph and was limitless and the train ascended

And I ascended and in our ascendency we scorched across time

Like comets. As the wind shrieked through my hair and the train’s horn

Forked through cracks and beneath doorways and between bodies,

I cried out for each house and car and light and tree and shadow,

Racing to an eternity somewhere between heaven and hell.

And echoing across space, I peered through the window

Where your eyes smiled in the incandescence of the blinking red light

That swung above my head, in the gnarled carcass of oaks and shadows

Standing before me, in the signs sighing stop and dead end,

And in the train’s infinite black hull as it bellows away somewhere into the night.

My eyes close. The world hangs calmly from the gallows and homes and leaves

And civilizations stand still - Lightening stumbles on, thunder sails across seas

Of granite and iron, rains pour forth. And for an instant I wonder

If my eyes will open again, or if I had evaporated into the night,

Smoke drifting amongst fireworks fading into the black.

The crimson blood of dusk dried

Against the switchblade horizon

And in an instant we were bathed in darkness –

Pure and holy and cathartic darkness.

And all that we saw was seen

Because we knew the heavens were our playground,

That the scarred and tattered earth was our canvas

And the night was our kingdom

And we shouted long live the king,

Until our roars were barely more than a whisper.

We stumbled through groves and glades

Chasing stars that were really fireflies,

And fireflies that were figments of our ecstasy.

We were alive and with every inch of flesh

Longing to join the silence of the night

 We came upon the metallic remains of our car

Buried beneath the rust of twilight.

We had played upon the steps of civilization

Without care, or worry, or consideration

For the consequences of our madness.

Our hearts raced, our skin tingled, our hair stood on end,

And we were happy to drown

In the animals noises of the road.

 The sound and smell and touch of existence

Rang forth from the dregs of our being like lingering perfume

As the car sped off,

And in the blink of an eye we were 1000 miles away.

The streetlights swayed above the black tar road

Like bright gulls on troughs and crests.

A fluorescent carrot dangling over our celestial bodies and minds

Leading to a moment, vision, place,

Anything that seemed to aim us

Into the dark of the night with reckless abandon.

Anything that moved us from here to there.

The destination was irrelevant - all that mattered

Was the chance to forget who we were for a second,

To exist and to exist and to only exist

Amongst the darkness of the soft night.

We cast our lots,

And chased the glow of far off stars and cities and fires

As our feet lusted upon the cold pedal

And we divided the night like a lion

Streaking  through herds and flocks.

Like some highway bandit stealing time and light

We howled and raged on roads

Born upon blades of sawgrass

And born upon ghost dances

And born upon the backs of tree-lined streets and Model T houses

That we tried to escape from

Because we tried to escape ourselves.

Our fears and our hopes and our dreams swept across

Generations generations generations

And only ruptured on this penitential night

When we fled the sounds the smells the smiles

That receded behind us,

Only to chase those same things

In the horizon that stretched out before our eyes.

He trickles off the curb

Beneath the green light’s vigilant gaze

With barely enough energy

To nibble at the air.

Like a tightrope walker

He slowly edges across

The ordered white lines

Leaning on his cart

With bags from the day before.

Car horns drain his silence.

The street and his face

Are buckled beneath

The weight of

Cars deaths,

Divorces pedestrians.

And time.

And his soft breath

Clings to the saturated night air

Alive with small insects

Flying about his

Tired head of white hair

And canyon wrinkles.

One day he had been

A holy man, a mad man,

A highway man

But now his void eyes

Converse with each car

Fogged by breathing,

A road block.

As I drive past

The old man stumbling across the street,

I pray he makes it,

Pray he gets home.

But he wants to be forgotten

Beneath the weight and screech

Of hot tires and horsepower.

So I drive past and he’s gone,

Leaving the white lines

Of the street behind.

And if I had time and some patience

I’d write a real good movie

With love and romance and star-crossed lovers and all that stuff

And there’d be big dresses and oceans of flowers and a bunch of crops. Maybe some oranges or Something, I’m not a farmer, and don’t plan on being one.

A lot of work it seems.

And there’d be columns like that Atlas guy and they’d be holdin’ up an old white plantation.

I don’t know him, but his shoulders must get really tired.

Or at least I’d imagine they would.

There’d be a guy and a girl

Who’d go for picnics and ride horses and sit under the stars

Talking about Huck Finn or that Eli Whitney guy. He did something with gin, I’m not sure what.

All I’m sure of is that stuff makes you sick. I swear I tried it once and couldn’t see straight for a Month, honest to God.

And I don’t know if that Huck Finn’s still living, but if he still is it’d be pretty cool to meet him.

Well that guy and girl would laugh and cry and sometimes make some jokes

About that smiling man who was always cleaning the house and doing all kinds of chores,

Which would make everyone in the audience cringe

 And look around to see if anyone else was watching and reactin’ like they were, because the joke was just bad.

But sometimes movies need that to keep you on your toes. You know?

Maybe their parents and aunts and uncles and cousins would really hate each other. Maybe even their pets would hate each other and that’d be hysterical  

Because I had a dog once and she really hated all kinds of people and I laughed at that a bunch, Like the time she chased the guy who delivers our mail down the street.

Anyway, maybe one was poor and the others really rich.

I’m not sure if they had cars back then but if they did the rich one’d probably have one,

Like ones of those really nice big red ones that go real fast and have a radio.

Girls love that kinda stuff so I’m gonna get one sometime.

Or maybe the guy was pretty smart like me and the other one was blind or deaf or real dumb.

Yea, I think the families would hate each other and the guy’s pretty poor but could do long math Problems and stuff like that and the girl’s blind and deaf  and couldn’t do any kind of math Which is kinda sad.

 Not even the easy ones with just pluses and minuses.

That seems like a movie I’d probably  wanna see.

Plus I love popcorn so I’d see it just to get that.

So this girl and guy are really not alike but still like goin places  and kissin and whatever

Else people who like each other do, I’m not so sure.

And there’s tension and suspense and maybe something bad happens like a fire or flood or Earthquakes or something. Someone told me one time that earthquakes are God’s stomach Rumbling. Not sure I believe that.

Why would he be so hungry?

Doesn’t matter I guess.

 But maybe the poor guy’s house burns down, but he’s still nice and loving and all

And despite the bad stuff happening they get married and buy their own big house

Supported by columns that look like that Atlas I talked about

 But the columns’ shoulders don’t get sore or nothin.

If I were Atlas my shoulders wouldn’t get sore.

The audience is kinda at the edge of their seats and they feel the movie endin and whatnot,

 And tears are wellin’ up in eyes.

But my eyes wouldn’t water because I don’t cry. Girls mostly do that stuff.

The camera kinda pulls out as the guy waves and he’s holdin the hand

 Of his rich but really blind, and deaf wife.

And just as all those people watchin’ start crying, and noses sniffle, and tissues are taken out and People start shoutin my name because it’s the best damn movie they’ve ever probably seen,

The screen goes dark and the credits roll and a lot of people cheer

And it’d be nice because then I wouldn’t be here stuck in my room for the weekend

Because I can’t do math problems,

Not even the easy ones with just pluses and minuses.

You take my hand trembling and with closed eyes praying fear and contrition

Fall, like the tears that stream down your face and now soar past our heads -

Trackless trains due at some eternal station where passengers wait

On platforms reading graffiti incantations that read “The End is near”

Or “Call now for a good time” scratched crudely into the flesh of walls.

Hurried glances freeze the ticktockticktock of time, whose hands move

Beneath waltzing shadows thrown from train lights approaching.

Yet as we drown in the cacophony of wind, all I can consider

Is the fate of your tears, and where they will fall, and how fast they will fall,

And whether mascara will run in tributaries across your face.

Our ragdoll forms fall slowly through air, abandoning

The gargoyle walls and windows that frame my shirts and her dresses

 Strung upon the leather chair which consumed body and mind as you sunk into the Grasp of its exaggerated arms and

We’d sit there at nights and Sunday mornings encapsulated in the leather

And breathing softly so as not to flutter the newspaper upon our laps.

We’d be surrounded by moments frozen in time

Upon photographic beaches, beside monuments, beneath trees in which we forever Carved our names in hearts and wrote “Love Always” with a blade now forgotten in rust in a box marked Miscellaneous -

Moments which now merely reflect scattered office lights and a waxing moon

And television lightning strikes dancing and thunder crashing in laugh tracks which echo through the lonely hallways of the apartment.

We sink and tumble through city canyons as our intertwined bodies

Slowly fall apart separated by what seems to be miles of car horn air

That’s actually nothing more than inches between cobweb fingers

Hoping to trap the other’s hand in its disintegrating grasp.

I often asked myself what this might feel like - to be airless, to fly, to be Icarus

Whose fated wings melted with the heat of his own ambition as his Father,

Daedalus, cried dirges watching his son explode upon the fields of water

That ebbed and flowed below.

We fell and fell through air and instead of hitting pavement

We fell through the ground, descending through the depths of the earth

And out into the depths of space, where I scream to deaf lightyear ears.

I awake to the echo of my own cry, and question whether my howl was imagined or not

Because the angel on the leather couch beside me has failed to move an inch and

Disrupt the newspapers thrown upon her silent lap.

I welcome the shirts and dresses, the picture frames retelling tales from a vacation, a wedding, a picnic in a park with a tree reading “Love Always” encircled by a crudely drawn heart that more closely resembles an arrowhead

Discovered by curious children digging through a leaf-covered Saturday backyard.

Somewhere someone’s still working as rows of lights vertically illuminate

The soft wood floors that drown in the sounds of a passing train and the television

That still yells with an early morning promise of salvation, “Repent.”

And I laugh, because I only commit mortal sins in my sleep

So I have nothing to worry about.

For two years I waited

Beside my window

Watching the traffic of time

That sped past the streets below

As trees grew and died

And were brought back to life

Beneath the weight of flowers and snow.

My feet stepped across the cold wooden floor

And formed canyons

Amplifying the whine and moan

Of my solemn procession

That seemed endless,

Only leading to the crashing of my heart against

Quivering ribs

As the spasm of each and every branch

Attracted my eyes to the light like moths

Unaware of their unforeseen fate.

Shadows pounced through the fogged window,

And my mind raced, 

“Is this it? Has the time come?

Just a sad whimpering boy hidden

Beneath dirty clothes in a clattered closet?”

I would resist and fight and claw and howl

And there’d be glory in that,

I’d think to myself.

Glory.

But what glory is there in waiting beside windows

And praying that backfired cars

Are backfired cars and not gun shots

Ringing through the shattered night

Like  church bells that reminded me

Of the oasis of day that would come

And then vanish like a mirage beneath the weight of dark

And flowers and snow,

Hiding the dew-kissed knife

That would wait until I fell asleep

To make sure I never awoke.

There was no glory in that,

Only trembling hands.

Vieux Carré

She said he had survived the Stone Age.

A Neolithic Bacchant

Who preached in temples and barrooms lining

Scorched streets -

Singed by the ebb and flow of Desire

That seemed to mark

 The cadence of time.

The rhythm of minutes and hands

Fell prey to the whims of the Blues,

Trudging along in an inebriated fashion.

He prowls along the fluorescent labyrinth

Of boulevards between Canal and Esplanade,

Flesh and night and ecstasy drown

In the swift currents

That blur the line between illusion and reality.

Paternal exaltations spur him on

As blood and spirits race through his body.

Whimpering lights entangle faces and buildings and shadows

Into indecipherable forms

That process behind halting steps to Elysium.

She stares into the shattered remains of her face

Glimmering wildly across the wooden floor,

His carnal mass lumbering

From room to room.

Words sear through her soul,

As laughter and wraiths waltz

Across the darkening crypt of her existence.

Harlots and sirens wail

Between muted cries from the forgotten phone,

Swinging softly as if hung upon gallows.

He said she’d had this date from the beginning.

An Epicurean Saint

Who howls into the black hole of his fury

With feigned volition,

Descending into the throes of primal carnality.

Unhinged eyes solicit salvation

From ceilings and walls that return vacuous glares.

The dregs of her being disintegrate slowly

As reality and delusion coalesce in psychological pyres

Of Varsouvian melodies and  vacant smiles.

Her name echoes shrilly across the eternities -

Past  the lights whispering “Open”,

And the blocks of buildings buckling

Beneath the damp sky,

Over forms collapsed in doorways and thresholds,

And spires grasping for last breaths.

Winding its way beneath muddy currents

And crops sprouting from sanguine soil

And tombs and trees decaying

Amidst white columns.

.

She descends into spells

Of chimerical bouts

Pitting reality against a rush of blood to the head

She’s drawn blindly to the florescence

Of grinning jack-o-lanterns out of focus

Who bob to palpitations from hearts and speakers.

Her mouth attempts a smile

As rose-splintered eyes kneel before the altar

Supplicating with sly glances beneath cumbersome eyelids.

The saints of her lust lurch past,

Refusing approbation –

Their souls drowned in the flood

Of chemicals and duplicity that seem to burst from each smirking face.

The spinning room and vinyl

Chips away at her consciousness

Sculpting a huddled mass of lace and tears

Strewn upon the quivering floor

“Love me,” she howls

But her cry echoes across the ever-widening chasm

Between her and herself

Falling upon the death eyes and blind ears

That stumble by.

She cries not for love or for pain

But eternally for what may have been

Hopes thrown to the floor

Like the sweat that descends from the crags of her face

“Just bang the drum slowly,” I breathe

“And walk.”

“Walk to its beat, to your beat, to its feel. And don’t look back.”

But it’s a ripple in an ocean as the whisper crawls from my mouth.

Her eyes roll, and her head falls…

As does my heart.

Sitting on my bed again

 I’m waiting for barbed thoughts to leave my mind

Tiptoeing through it all once more,

 I stare into my soul with silent eyes

But all I see is crickets’ chirps,

And hear shadows lurch across the room

Light plays upon the trembling keys –

Sweet lullabies that try to lead me home

Let’s crawl along that darkened path

 Past dreams and fears

And houses made of fog

And weigh our eyes with vespered coins

Beneath the night’s darkened veil

Let’s hide again from my own being,

Being careful not go

Down to those depths where light is fleeting

And the qualms cascade like snow

Down and down we mustn’t fall

But down and down we simply do

‘Til night ensnares my eyes and body

Night ensnares my mind and soul…

For two years I waited

Beside my window

Watching the traffic of time

That sped past the streets below

As trees grew and died

And were brought back to life

Beneath the weight of flowers and snow.

My feet stepped across the cold wooden floor

And formed canyons

Amplifying the whine and moan

Of my solemn procession

That seemed endless,

Only leading to the crashing of my heart against

Quivering ribs

As the spasm of each and every branch

Attracted my eyes to the light like moths

Unaware of their unforeseen fate.

Shadows pounced through the fogged window,

And my mind raced,  

“Is this it? Has the time come?

Just a sad whimpering boy hidden

Beneath dirty clothes in a clattered closet?”

I would resist and fight and claw and howl

And there’d be glory in that,

I’d think to myself.

Glory.

But what glory is there in waiting beside windows

And praying that backfired cars

Are backfired cars and not gun shots

Ringing through the shattered night

Like  church bells that reminded me

Of the oasis of day that would come

And then vanish like a mirage beneath the weight of dark

And flowers and snow,

Sure of the dew-kissed knife

That would wait until I fell asleep

To make sure I never awoke.

There was no glory in that, only sweating  hands

And trembling phobias.

She descends into spells

Of chimerical bouts

Pitting reality against a rush of blood to the head

She’s drawn blindly to the florescence

Of grinning jack-o-lanterns out of focus

Who bob to palpitations from hearts and speakers.

Her mouth attempts a smile

As rose-splintered eyes kneel before the altar

Supplicating with sly glances beneath cumbersome eyelids.

The saints of her lust lurch past,

Refusing approbation –

Their souls drowned in the flood

Of chemicals and duplicity that seem to burst from each smirking face.

The spinning room and vinyl

Chips away at her consciousness

Sculpting a huddled mass of lace and tears

Strewn upon the quivering floor

“Love me,” she howls

But her cry echoes across the ever-widening chasm

Between her and herself

Falling upon the death eyes and blind ears

That stumble by.

She cries not for love or for pain

But eternally for what may have been

Hopes thrown to the floor

Like the sweat that descends from the crags of her face

“Just bang the drum slowly,” I breathe

“And walk.”

“Walk to its beat, to your beat, to its feel. And don’t look back.”

But it’s a ripple in an ocean as the whisper crawls from my mouth.

Her eyes roll, and her head falls…

As does my heart.

You took my hand trembling and with closed eyes praying fear and contrition

Fell, like the tears that streamed down your face and now soared past our heads

Like trackless trains due at some eternal station where passengers waited

On platforms reading graffiti incantations that read “The End is near”

Or “Call now for a good time” scratched crudely into the flesh of walls.

Hurrying glances froze the ticktockticktock of time, whose hands moved

Beneath waltzing shadows thrown from train lights approaching.

Yet as we drowned in the cacophony of wind, all I could consider

Was the fate of your tears, and where they would fall, and how fast they would fall,

And whether mascara would run in black tributaries across your face.

Our ragdoll forms fall slowly through air, abandoning

The gargoyle walls and windows that framed my shirts and her dresses

 Strung upon the leather chair which consumed body and mind as you sunk into the Grasp of its exaggerated arms and

We’d sit there at nights and Sunday mornings encapsulated in the leather

And breathing softly so as not to flutter the soft newspaper upon our laps.

We’d be surrounded by moments frozen in time

Upon photographic beaches, beside monuments, beneath trees in which we forever Carved our names in hearts and wrote “Love Always” with a blade now forgotten in rust in a box marked Miscellaneous -

Moments which now merely reflected scattered office lights and a waxing moon

And television lightning strikes dancing and thunder crashing in laugh tracks which echo through the lonely hallways of the apartment.

We sink and tumble through city canyons as our intertwined bodies

Slowly fall apart separated by what seems to be miles of car horn air

That’s actually nothing more than inches between cobweb fingers

Hoping to trap the other’s hand in its disintegrating grasp.

I often asked myself what this might feel like - to be airless, to fly, to be Icarus

Whose fated wings melted with the heat of his own ambition as his Father,

Daedalus, cried dirges watching his son explode upon the fields of water

That ebbed and flowed below.

We fell and fell through air and instead of hitting pavement

We fell through the ground, descending through the depths of the earth

And out into the depths of space, where I scream to deaf lightyear ears.

I awake to the echo of my own cry, and question whether my howl was imagined or not

Because the angel on the leather couch beside has failed to move an inch and

Disrupt the newspapers thrown upon her silent lap.

I welcome the shirts and dresses, the picture frames retelling tales from a vacation, a wedding, a picnic in a park with a tree reading “Love Always” encircled by a crudely drawn heart that more closely resembles an arrowhead

Discovered by curious children digging through a leaf-covered Saturday backyard.

Somewhere someone’s still working as rows of lights vertically illuminate

The soft wood floors that drown in the sounds of a passing train and the television

That still yells, “Repent while you can.”

I laugh, because I only commit mortal sins in my sleep

So I have nothing to worry about.

And if I had time and some patience

I’d write a real good movie

With love and romance and star-crossed lovers and all that stuff

And there’d be big dresses and oceans of flowers and a bunch of crops. Maybe some oranges or Something, I’m not a farmer, and don’t plan on being one.

A lot of work it seems.

And there’d be columns like that Atlas guy and they’d be holdin’ up an old white plantation.

I don’t know him, but his shoulders must get really tired.

Or at least I’d imagine they would.

There’d be a guy and a girl

Who’d go for picnics and ride horses and sit under the stars

Talking about Huck Finn or that Eli Whitney guy. He did something with gin, I’m not sure what.

All I’m sure of is that stuff makes you sick. I swear I tried it once and couldn’t see straight for a Month, honest to God.

And I don’t know if that Huck Finn’s still living, but if he still is it’d be pretty cool to meet him.

Well that guy and girl would laugh and cry and sometimes make some jokes

About that smiling man who was always cleaning the house and doing all kinds of chores,

Which would make everyone in the audience cringe

 And look around to see if anyone else was watching and reactin’ like they were, because the joke was just bad.

But sometimes movies need that to keep you on your toes. You know?

Maybe their parents and aunts and uncles and cousins would really hate each other. Maybe even their pets would hate each other and that’d be hysterical  

Because I had a dog once and she really hated all kinds of people and I laughed at that a bunch, Like the time she chased the guy who delivers our mail down the street.

Anyway, maybe one was poor and the others really rich.

I’m not sure if they had cars back then but if they did the rich one’d probably have one,

Like ones of those really nice big red ones that go real fast and have a radio.

Girls love that kinda stuff so I’m gonna get one sometime.

Or maybe the guy was pretty smart like me and the other one was blind or deaf or real dumb.

Yea, I think the families would hate each other and the guy’s pretty poor but could do long math Problems and stuff like that and the girl’s blind and deaf  and couldn’t do any kind of math Which is kinda sad.

 Not even the easy ones with just pluses and minuses.

That seems like a movie I’d probably  wanna see.

Plus I love popcorn so I’d see it just to get that.

So this girl and guy are really not alike but still like goin places  and kissin and whatever

Else people who like each other do, I’m not so sure.

And there’s tension and suspense and maybe something bad happens like a fire or flood or Earthquakes or something. Someone told me one time that earthquakes are God’s stomach Rumbling. Not sure I believe that.

Why would he be so hungry?

Doesn’t matter I guess.

 But maybe the poor guy’s house burns down, but he’s still nice and loving and all

And despite the bad stuff happening they get married and buy their own big house

Supported by columns that look like that Atlas I talked about

 But the columns’ shoulders don’t get sore or nothin.

If I were Atlas my shoulders wouldn’t get sore.

The audience is kinda at the edge of their seats and they feel the movie endin and whatnot,

 And tears are wellin’ up in eyes.

But my eyes wouldn’t water because I don’t cry. Girls mostly do that stuff.

The camera kinda pulls out as the guy waves and he’s holdin the hand

 Of his rich but really blind, and deaf wife.

And just as all those people watchin’ start crying, and noses sniffle, and tissues are taken out and People start shoutin my name because it’s the best damn movie they’ve ever probably seen,

The screen goes dark and the credits roll and a lot of people cheer

And it’d be nice because then I wouldn’t be here stuck in my room for the weekend

Because I can’t do math problems,

Not even the easy ones with just pluses and minuses.

Sitting on my bed again

 I’m waiting for barbed thoughts to leave my mind

Tiptoeing through it all once more,

 I stare into my soul with silent eyes

But all I see is crickets’ chirps,

And hear shadows lurch across the room

Light plays upon the trembling keys –

Sweet lullabies that try to lead me home

Let’s crawl along that darkened path

 Past dreams and fears

And houses made of fog

And weigh our eyes with vespered coins

Beneath the night’s darkened veil

Let’s hide again from my own being,

Being careful not go

Down to those depths where light is fleeting

And the qualms cascade like snow

Down and down we mustn’t fall

But down and down we simply do

‘Til night ensnares my eyes and body

Night ensnares my mind and soul…

According to feminist critic Elaine Showalter, Kate Chopin’s The Awakening is a seminal novel which clearly depicts and contests restraints upon feminine behavior and expression, going, “boldly beyond the work of her precursors in writing about women's longing for sexual and personal emancipation."  While it cannot be argued as to the prevalence of sexuality and emancipation in the novel, to deem The Awakening merely as a work of Feminist literature is to fail to understand and realize the vast philosophical foundations inherent in the book’s seemingly simplistic and basic aesthetic appearance.  Although a number of philosophical ideologies can easily be argued as the primary foundation of the novel, Existentialism is certainly most evident.  Many of the essential themes of Existentialism resound throughout Chopin’s work, calling into question much larger and more profound issues than a sex’s inherent right to enjoy this action or that belief. 

            While when many think of Existentialism they immediately gravitate toward the writings and philosophies of Friedrich Nietzsche, we must look beyond Nietzsche in order to fully grasp The Awakening’s Existential elements. It is fair to state that, on the surface, Nietzsche’s The Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of Music may seem like the most appropriate Existential text to begin our comparison.  However, when we view the breadth of The Birth of Tragedy, we see that the theory of conflicting Apollonian and Dionysian forces is not necessarily intended to apply to the individual.  In the larger sense, Nietzsche’s argument is not that our lives are defined by two constantly conflicting forces (although this certainly can be seen as a truth of the human condition), rather his primary goal is to explain the nature of Greek Tragedy, and its downfall following the introduction of the Socratic obsession with knowledge and ultimate trust in human thought.  Nietzsche states that before the influence of Dionysus entered the realm of Greek art, it was naïve and only concerned with aesthetic interpretations.  Thus, this Apollonian form of artistic expression hindered the individual from ever fully connecting with the artistic piece.     Rather, the individual saw the painting, sculpture, play, etc., and was only able to connect on an aesthetic and intellectual level – relegated to mere contemplation.  With the introduction of Dionysian elements, Greek culture came to an understanding that the individual’s raptness into “Primordial Unity” was the only true means of achieving deliverance from the anguish of the world – providing the modern reader with an alternative to the Christian idea of salvation. As Dionysian elements entered art, “the illusion of culture was wiped away by the primordial image of man.” As a result, the audience is fully able to imagine, “themselves as restored natural geniuses, as satyrs.” However, in this state the audience has an Apollonian vision of the eternal energy they are currently the embodiment of; this Dionysian image is manifested onstage by the development of the plot by the chorus, and actors.  Therefore, the primal essence of the aforementioned vision is the inseparable agony and elation of the human condition – the perfect balance of Apollo and Dionysus that occurs flawlessly in the form of Greek Tragedy. According to Nietzsche, Euripides, often considered the last of the three great Greek tragedians, was largely responsible for integrating the Socratic elements into the Greek theater that forever tipped the artistic balance to the side of Apollonianism.  As a result, the summit of artistic creation that could be found in the works of Aeschylus and Sophocles fell into an eternal artistic descent due to Euripides’ elimination of the musical element.  Thus, it is vital to keep in mind Nietzsche’s original intent in writing the Birth of Tragedy.  While it certainly can be viewed in a number of ways, a philosophical interpretation of the book often leads us to conflict with his later works.  Nietzsche himself stated that The Birth of Tragedy is, “an impossible book . . . badly written, ponderous, embarrassing, image-mad and image-confused, sentimental, saccharine to the point of effeminacy, uneven in tempo, [and] without the will to logical cleanliness."  Therefore, we must look elsewhere in the Existentialist canon when searching for the foundations of The Awakening.

                        In order to find the Existentialist roots of The Awakening, we must look to the works of the individual largely considered the Father of Existentialism, Soren Kierkegaard, as well as the philosophies of Jean-Paul Sartre.  One of the initial Existential themes that arises in the novel is the idea defined as “Existence preceding Essence.”  Essentially, this idea of Existence preceding Essence, or “Thrownness,” is described by Heidegger as the  idea that human beings are "thrown" into existence without having chosen it; Existentialists consider being thrown into existence as prior to, and the horizon or context of, any other definitions of themselves that humans create.  Kierkegaard largely deals with this issue in his novel Repetition.  In Repetition, the title character, Young Man, cries out:

How did I get into the world? Why was I not asked about it and why was I not informed of the rules and regulations but just thrust into the ranks as if I had been bought by a peddling shanghaier of human beings? How did I get involved in this big enterprise called actuality? Why should I be involved? Isn't it a matter of choice? And if I am compelled to be involved, where is the manager—I have something to say about this. Is there no manager? To whom shall I make my complaint?     

In essence, this is the initial dilemma of Edna Pontellier.  It must be questioned as to whether there was at any time, a true and undying sense of love and attachment between Edna and Leonce Pontellier.  As the plot progresses, we come to realize that her marriage to Leonce was primarily an act of rebellion against her father, and her strong Protestant upbringing; in no way was her marriage based upon love, attraction, caring, etc.  From their initial conversations in which Leonce looks, “at his wife as one looks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered damage” (Chopin 2), it is apparent that a true connection between the two individuals doesn’t exist.  Thus, since her marriage is the result of an act of rebellion, it can be stated that she was thrown into a situation which she truly didn’t understand or choose.  An act of rebellion, especially when enacted to spite another individual, is not a thoroughly rational, thought-through decision; it is one made on whim and emotion.  Not truly understanding Leonce or in essence the society into which she was about to enter, Edna was thrown into a situation in which she did not appropriately, logically, and soundly choose.  Thus, as a result of the situation she comes to find herself in, Edna must define her own meaning within society, and life.  This in itself is one of the tenants of Existentialism – humanity’s right to define the meaning of their own life – and eventually will lead to her alienation from society and suicide.  As Jean-Paul Sartre states, "If man, as the existentialist conceives him, is indefinable, it is because at first he is nothing. Only afterward will he be something, and he himself will have made what he will be."  When Edna begins to, “realize her position in the universe as a human being, and to recognize her relations as an individual to the world within and about her” (13), she begins to form her own self-realized idea of what her existence and meaning truly are.  As Sartre states that at first man is indefinable because he is nothing, in the same way Edna’s initial time with Leonce and experiences within Creole society leave her with a profound sense of being nothing. As exemplified by Leonce’s statement that,  "Why, my dear, I should think you'd understand by this time that people don't do such things; we've got to observe Brontë if we ever expect to get on and keep up with the procession" (51), Edna’s personal rights have been more or less taken from her. She is expected to follow a set routine, to listen to and obey her husband, and to subserviently follow the social rules of her society; if an individual is not allowed to express their basic inalienable rights of autonomy and self expression, what truly has that individual become?

            As Edna begins to determine her own interpretation of her life’s meaning, she confronts a sense of seclusion or lack of belonging from the society in which she exists.  This issue, often referred to as Existential suffering or angst, is discussed by Kierkegaard in his novel, Fear and Trembling.  As the individual begins to grasp what it truly means to exist, and understands the absurdity of the human condition, they experience a profound realization that can only be expected to result in a severe sense of loneliness and seclusion.  According to Kierkegaard, the age in which we exist is reflective, valuing thought over action.  As such, a premium has been put upon those individuals who forego those thoroughly subjective aspects of existence – desire, passion, etc. As such, as an individual comes to realize his/her own existence and the brevity of this existence, they become consumed by a desire and passion for life; society does not condone this desire and passion, for it is not objective.  In a sense, this is the thorough sense of detachment and loneliness Edna experiences: “Edna looked straight before her with a self-absorbed expression upon her face. She felt no interest in anything about her. The street, the children, the fruit vender, the flowers growing there under her eyes, were all part and parcel of an alien world which had suddenly become antagonistic” (54).  She is aware of how thoroughly trivial and meaningless the monotonous expectations of society truly are.  What is the point of putting on airs and living to make others happy, when you yourself are truly unhappy?

            When we juxtapose Edna with Adele Ratignolle regarding the aforementioned idea of Existential isolation, we come to Sartre’s Existential tenet of Being for Others.  In the case of Adele Ratignolle and much of society, the individual who is incapable of embracing their independence to face existential absurdity and define the meaning of their own life, seeks to be “looked at”, in what Sartre would define as The Gaze.  In essence, the individual whishes to become an object of another person’s subjectivity; as a result, this conflict of freedoms results in one individual controlling the sense of identity of another.  The idea of Being for Others is similar to the analogous tenets of Nietzschean ressentiment and Bad Faith, in which one denies one's total freedom, instead choosing to behave as an inert object   The society in which the novel takes place is largely defined by this idea of Being for Others – women forego many liberties and freedoms due to their inability to question the society in which they exist, and as such they give their existence and meaning over to their husbands to control.  The women in the novel allow society to deem what is appropriate or inappropriate, and as a result they lose their inalienable freedoms, in essence becoming innate objects to their husbands.  Edna’s rebellion against this theory is exemplified in the statement that, “Conditions would some way adjust themselves, [Edna] felt; but whatever came, she had resolved never again to belong to another than herself” (81).

            Kierkegaard, under the pseudonym Johannes Climacus, states in Concluding Unscientific Postscript to Philosophical Fragments, that, "Subjectivity is Truth".  This exceedingly cryptic and ambiguous lines is in essence one of the most important themes of Existentialism and The Awakening.  According to Socrates, the goal of life is to know thyself - knowing oneself means being conscious of who one is, what one cannot be and what one can be. Thus, the task of subjectivity is the search for the self.  The problem, according to Kierkegaard, is that we must decide who and what we will be based on purely subjective interests - the individual must make decisions that will mean something to him as a intellectual, emotional entity.  Thus the epiphanies that occur throughout the novel lead Edna to develop who she is and who she is not.  Her death is the ultimate realization of this Subjectivity.  Edna realizes that her existence is not suited to her situation and position in time.  While this realization may be deemed selfish or rash, she understands that she can never be Adele Ratignolle, nor can she ever be Mademoiselle Reisz.  In her mind, Edna is completely incompatible with the world in which she lives.  This realization leads Edna into what Kierkegaard defined as Angst.  Kierkegaard uses Angst to describe a profound and deep-seated spiritual condition of insecurity and despair in the free human being.  When speaking with Doctor Mandelet, Edna states, “Perhaps it is better to wake up after all, even to suffer, rather than to remain a dupe to illusions all one’s life” (112).  This statement closely mirrors Angst in that with freedom and understanding come pain and burden; thus, Angst is very much in the same light as the phrase “Ignorance is bliss.”  Edna’s growth, while liberating, creates within herself an insurmountable amount of pain and hurt.  Edna doesn’t, “want anything but [her] own way.  That is wanting a good deal, of course, when you have to trample upon the lives, the hearts, the prejudices of others – but no matter – still, I shouldn’t want to trample upon the little lives” (112).  Here is the summit of Edna’s Angst, and this is what truly leads to her suicide.  In what can be seen as possibly her ultimate awakening, she realizes that her actions – her rash, selfish, pleasure-seeking actions – have a greater consequence than merely just affecting her own life.  She understands this is who she is – thus aggressive, independent, sensual woman.  As such, she knows she cannot change, and will not change; as a result, if she continues to exist, she will only hurt more innocent individuals in the process.  Thus, she has no other reasonable option, but to take her own life.

            While at first glance, Kate Chopin’s The Awakening may seem like a simple Realist novel celebrating Feministic principles.  However, when we look past the aesthetics of the work, and search for the deeper meaning, we find an Existentialist manifesto containing many of the principle tenets of Existentialism.  By comparing the ideologies evident in The Awakening to those of such Existentialists as Soren Kierkegaard and Jean-Paul Sartre, we come to the realization that the book is much more than a simple turn of the century novel – it is in fact a study into humanity’s eternal search for meaning, purpose, and what composes our existence.

Intellect and reasoning separate mankind from beast.  To be human is to think, to rationalize, to be aware, to reason – to question.  The ability to question and seek knowledge is an innate and integral aspect of human nature. We observe and contemplate the seemingly random and chaotic phenomena of the world around us, and attempt to explain the often unfathomable events that govern our lives – death, birth, sickness, poverty, disaster, degradation. This facet of humanity leads us to certain eternal philosophical and intellectual questions. Who are we? Why are we here? And finally, is it fate or free will? The debate as to whether our lives are governed by autonomous decisions or foreordained mandates is an essential component in our perpetual attempt to understand the nature of the human condition. It is this ideological struggle between god and man, or fate and destiny, that forms the philosophical foundation evident in Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex. The incredibly pitiable and harrowing events of Oedipus’ life, compounded by the various oracular predictions and prophecies throughout the play, incite within ourselves a desire to discover the true nature of Oedipus’ tragedy: is his misfortune the result of a demoniac fate and implacable gods, or is it the consequence of a man’s entirely independent actions.

In truth, human beings are neither creatures of fate nor creatures of free will.  Humanity is a hybrid of various circumstances, both controlled and uncontrolled. Millions of decisions, regardless of how small, large, distant, or near, alter our lives every single day. In a way, the human condition is at the whims of a twisted, philosophical form of the Chaos Theory. Actions being taken by those close to us, as well as those we may not know or even come in contact with, are compounded by our owns decisions, intertwining themselves into, in essence, a human life.   It is impossible for a single individual to be in complete control over his/her future, because of the seemingly infinite number of possible outside variables.  As much as we may take pleasure in the idea that we are solely responsible for the successes and failures in our lives, the actions of others are equivalent to our own actions in determining the outcome of our future. Essentially, the decisions we make are counterbalanced by the decisions of others. 

However, fate is non-existent, in any sense, in humanity.  Fate can be defined as the universal principle or ultimate agency by which the order of things is presumably prescribed.  Therefore, “fate” can be viewed as a form of divine intervention.  While the literary effect of this is quite understandable as a means to providing a humanized form for unexplainable and supernatural occurrences, when determining whether humans are creatures of fate or free will, it is preposterous to cite “divine intervention” as a means to explaining the human condition. Humans are not creatures of fate, or creatures of free will and fate, but rather creatures of diversified free will – a free will that bases itself upon the actions and decisions of a countless number of people, including the actions of the individual himself. Thus, to explain the human condition in the context of fate is to do nothing more than subjugate mankind to some azoic state of existence.

“Diversified free will” is easily applicable when attempting to understand the events leading up Oedipus’ exile.  Throughout the play, Oedipus considers himself a,”child of Fortune!” (39). He believes his success in solving the riddle, and becoming king of Thebes are direct results of the intervention of the gods.  However, to explain the tragedy of Oedipus as solely the result of some divine intervention, would fail to see the entire picture. It is not the complete work of the gods, or man, or Oedipus. Rather, Oedipus’ tragedy is the direct result of the culmination of a number of apparently random events and decisions. Therefore, Oedipus is as equally responsible as Jocasta, or the Old Man, or Polybus.  The decision of each individual had a significant part in leading Oedipus to his ultimate end – exile and death.

Following the birth of Oedipus, Laius is informed by an oracle that he is doomed to die at the hands of his son.  Threatened by the oracular prophecy and unwilling to accept the possible fate of parricide, Jocasta ordered the child to be left for dead in the forests of Cithaeron. The servant entrusted with the task of disposing of the unsanctified infant is overcome with pity, and is unable to perform his appointed task. As Oedipus, now king of Thebes, frantically searches for the truth as to who murdered King Laius, the origin of his birth comes into question.  He calls forth an Old Man, who is said to have been a witness to the death of Laius.  Heated conversation ensues, and it is revealed that the Old Man was actually the servant responsible for killing the infant Oedipus. Unable to kill the innocent child, the Old Man gave the infant to a shepherd, “Thinking he would carry it away to other soil, from whence he came; but to the worst of harms saved it!” (42). Thus, if it was not for the weakness inherent in the Old Man’s character, infant Oedipus would’ve been killed, and the horrible series of events which would  come to define his life would have never happened.  Furthermore, if the shepherd, later revealed to be the Messenger, had decided to keep the child instead of giving him to the heirless Polybus and Merope, Oedipus’ future would’ve have been drastically altered.  Without his royal upbringing, it is quite unlikely that he would’ve questioned the legitimacy of his parents, and visited the Oracle at Pytho. Such actions as the Old Man’s inability to kill the infant Oedipus, or the shepherd’s decision to give the child to Polybus and Merope, are seemingly insignificant results with incredibly serious consequences that grew exponentially with the passage of time.  Bandaged and bleeding, a broken and pitiable Oedipus, having just witnessed the limp corpse of his wife and birthmother, cries out: “Cithaeron! Wherefore didst thou harbor me! Why not at once have slain me?  Never then had I displayed before the face of men who and from whom I am!” (49). It is at this moment of sheer human emotion and horror, that the free will of others is truly seen in relation to the tragedy of Oedipus. Inconsequential decisions developed  into  actions with unforeseen consequences.

The rather blunt and slurred words of an intoxicated guest at a royal party truly set off the events that come to define Oedipus’ adult life.  While a drunkard howling out uncouth remarks might seem to be a meaningless incident within one’s life, in the case of Oedipus, this event is truly significant in the molding of his character.  At a banquet attended by a young Oedipus, a “drunken fellow over his cups called [him] a changeling” (28). Whoever the inebriate is, his decision to drink heavily, and reveal a secret of the royal family has an amazingly important impact upon young Oedipus’ life. As a result of the dipsomaniac’s remarks and the rumors that began to circulate soon after, “for it spread far” (28), Oedipus questions the identity of his parents, consults the Oracle, and runs away from Corinth.  Thus, a decision as insignificant as the number of drinks one consumes has an effect that only multiplies as one’s life progresses. The free will of the guest allowed him to freely decide how much he would drink. Similarly, the free will of Oedipus allowed him to freely respond to the remarks made, and act according to his discretion. 

While it can be said that the horrific tragedy which befalls Oedipus is the result of many, he is also partially to blame.  His own downfall is partially the result of flaws evident within his character – hubris, imprudence, and obstinacy. The comments of the aforementioned drunkard so damage the pride of Oedipus, that he is forced to consult the Oracle regarding the identity of his parents.  Having been so shaken by the words of the Oracle, Oedipus rashly decides to leave Corinth without further investigating the identity of his parents – a truly foolish decision.  Further on, Oedipus, trusting his ability to discern the truth over that of Tiresias, refuses to head the seer’s warning to end his search. Tiresias pleads with Oedipus, declaring, “I will not bring remorse upon myself and upon you. Why do you search these matters? Vain, vain! I will not tell you” (13).  Again, Oedipus’ pride and stubbornness steer him towards tragedy. In refusing to heed Tiresias’ advice, Oedipus plunges deeper into his past, with the only outcome being the complete and utter collapse of his existence.

Placing blame entirely upon the gods, or entirely upon Oedipus may seem like a pragmatic means to identity the primary party responsible for Oedipus’ tragedy. However, to do so is to fail to truly appreciate the complexity and interdependence of mankind.  Oedipus’ downfall, while partly his own doing, is largely the result of the aggregation of a number of seemingly random events and decisions. No one person is to blame for the success or failure of an individual.  The failure or fruition of the individual is in truth the failure or success of us all. For, every event in one’s life, regardless of the significance, is the direct result of free-will; not the free will of one, but the free will of the whole.