Cultural Mythology: American Notions of Self and Country

Moderation is Not a Negation of Intensity but Helps Avoid Monotony

Will you stop for a while, stop trying to pull yourself together
for some clear "meaning"-- some momentary summary?
        No one
can have poetry or dances, prayers or climaxes all day;
the ordinary blankness of little dramatic consciousness is good for the health sometimes
only Dostoevsky can be Dostoevskian at such long,
        long, tumultuous stretches;
look what the intensity did to poor Van Gogh!;
        linger, lunge

scrounge and be stupid, that doesn't take much centering of one's forces;
as wise Whitman said "lounge and invite the soul."
        Get enough sleep;
and not only because (as Cocteau said) "poetry is the literature of sleep;"
be a dumb bell for a few minutes at least;
we don't want Sunday church bells
        ringing constantly

---John Tagliabue

New moon over Coyote

One of the most satisfying experiences that I know is to watch dusk fall, especially at our desert cabin, where the sky is so huge, and the darkness, ultimately, so complete. Willa Cather writes, "This is happiness, to be dissolved into something complete and great" (My Antonia). Here is the new moon, setting in the west just before nightfall. If perchance, you didn't plant seeds worth harvesting, you'll get another chance next month. Now that's what I call grace.

Fact and Fiction

In the past week, the words "hero" and "Obama" have appeared in the same sentence with increasing frequency, along with the hope that he will in fact be one. Whether or not President Obama, the man, will be or is a hero, will be revealed over the course of his life, as will the personal significance that this idea holds for him. In this sense, he is like the rest of us.

But being called to be President of the United States is clearly a huge task, and to be a heroic president, well, that is potentially overwhelming, and tricky. Tricky because what it means to be heroic in that context is ambiguous. The ambiguity is inherent in a symbol as powerful as the presidency, and it is further reflected in the myriad and often inchoate desires of the public that called him into service. I don't think we diminish the man by recognizing that the luminosity of his election and tremendous power of his inauguration stem from our melding of the power of that office with the mythology of America, vested in one human being. The Obama we see is largely our creation, the acceptable symbolic response to a collective desire. So I have two questions. First, can we collectively separate the man from the symbol and understand the difference? Second, what does this symbol mean, that is, what do we desire? Hope? Change? What kind of change?

The distinction between the symbol and the man is crucial, akin to recognizing the difference between fact and fiction. That President Obama will disappoint some, if not of all us, to varying degrees, is a given. We're all human and the problems that face us are complex. If we understand the difference between our hopes and ideals, and the man vested with the power to help us realize them, we can continue to draw sustenance from the principles that animate us, and take responsibility for their fulfillment, even if we become disillusioned with Obama. If we succeed at this, the present day hopefulness may result in real change that extends well beyond Obama's presidency and deeply permeates the fabric of our society.

Which leads back to my second question, what do we want? I doubt that every American will answer the question in the same way, but that is is one more reason that we should ask it, of ourselves and each other. "What does Obama symbolize to you?" I keep asking myself, in the face of my own joy and relief. I don't really know. I know I thrill to a sense of cosmic justice restored, now that a black family lives in the White House built by slaves. But I don't know how Obama's presidency will impact the lived experience of black people or others of color, nor do I have any plan to participate concretely in the extension of this "justice." This illustrates, for me, the difference between the symbolism of a black president and the emotional response that evokes, and the more difficult task of translating that emotion into action. I can be very satisfied by my personal experience of this abstraction, and do nothing. I can lay the problem of race relations at Obama's feet. Or I can, spurred by the surprising power of this historical event, get engaged with the problems myself. In possession of this realization, what will I do? Stay tuned.

This kind of reflection, which historically, has not been our country's strong suit, is important. Each of us has a moral obligation to understand the contents of our individual consciousness, to own our prejudices and the values that we project onto other people, especially those who operate as powerful symbols. This kind of awareness also makes it easier to avoid falling into group-think. We need free and open debate and disagreement after eight years of lockdown. We need to be clear about what we are up to.

Just before the inauguration, the Huffington Post circulated a video of ordinary Americans taking the oath of office. We've all been inaugurated is the message. Check it out, imagine what kind of president you would be, and consider what Obama means to you. Take the Oath video

Faith

Faith is what remains when hopes are dashed, and must be attached to something durable. Faith is a gift, and a challenge.

Faith

I want to write about faith,
about the way the moon rises
 over cold snow, night after night,

faithful even as it fades from fullness,
slowly becoming that last curving and impossible
sliver of light before the final darkness.

But I have no faith myself
I refuse it even the smallest entry.

Let this then, my small poem,
like a new moon, slender and barely open,
be the first prayer that opens me to faith.

---David Whyte

The new moon rises at 11:55 PM Sunday, January 25th. The new moon is the time of planting (as the full moon is the harvest), a good time to plant the metaphorical seeds of any endeavor. Happy planting, and I hope your ground is soft.

Hope, not fear

Yesterday I listened to Obama's inauguration with a kind of giddy joy, a joy that infused the crowd at the party I later attended, and hasn't totally subsided. For the first time in my life, I am proud of our President and of the opportunity to participate in civic life that he offers to everyone, especially my generation. At long last, the rebuilding, renewing, rejuvenating, and revisioning of this country may take place along lines of which I approve.

But when I hear people talk about wiping the slate clean, I also feel trepidation. We need to remember how we got here, not sweep aside the lessons or the debts that we've accumulated in our collective rush towards transformation and the dawning of a new day. So at the top of the list of thrilling moments from the last 72 hours, even edging out Beyonce's rendition of America The Beautiful at last Sunday's pre-inaugural concert, and the images of thousands upon thousands of people gathered to witness the swearing in of our first black President, is the announcement that Obama plans to close Guantanamo Bay and has suspended the military tribunals. This action, which will no doubt usher in all kinds of complications, gives meaning to the rhetoric "we chose hope over fear." The next step is criminal investigation of Bush administration officials for war crimes, something we are obligated to pursue by treaty and by our own Constitution.

Check out Glenn Greenwald's piece on Salon.com for more information.

The Obama inauguration included a poem by Elizabeth Alexander, "Praise Song for the Day." In her poem, Alexander turns to our collective past and reminds us of the debt owed to our ancestors.
"Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,
picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of."

To which I add this, from Maya Angelou's "The Rock Cries Out to Us Today" recited at Clinton's 1993 inauguration.
"History, despite its wrenching pain,
cannot be unlived, and if faced
with courage, need not be lived again."

What story are we living in right now?

One way to understand the myths active in our collective psyche is to reflect on the movies. Even (or especially) the ones that we see for pure entertainment. Ever notice how a crop of films will come out that deal with the same theme?  Disaster films, films about disillusioned soldiers or discredited cops who actually knew what was coming down, films about crooked politicians, or the Holocaust. It's both obvious, and easy to overlook, the way that cultural phenomena, even products that don't claim to be more than silly or trivial, mirror our mythology. So in these black dog days of upheaval and change, one place to look for shifts in our shared narrative is the movies.

The intersection of life and story embodied in the movies is a powerful crossroads, and I especially appreciate insightful commentary from someone who knows and loves both form and content, on and off the screen.One great source: Living the Romantic Comedy blog by Billy Mernit. Check out the blog and other details here Billy Mernit, Living the Romantic Comedy

In addition to interesting movie reviews, last month Mernit noted these uncertain times and posed this question: When I talk to industry colleagues these days, invariably we end up musing on the currently unknowable, i.e where are the currents taking us?  What kind of a movie is the public going to want to see?  What is the nature of the story that we're all living in right now?

I love this question because thinking about movies roots something big and abstract, the question of our national, cultural mythology and narratives about identity, in familiar ground. You might want to think about your favorite movies and why you like those stories in particular. I'm not going to start writing movie reviews--not yet anyway--but I have a few thoughts in response to Mernit's question. These are not predictions but what I hope to see and encourage. I will look for movies that are about renewal, for stories about the cyclical nature of things. And I will look for new forms of heroism. Fewer Lone Rangers and vigilantes with guns, and more group action, more complex psychology, and an appreciation of the challenges posed by the ordinary. On that note, I'd like to see films that reacquaint us with beauty, and teach us how to see it.

If you know of a movie that points in these directions, let me know.

Forgetfulness

Here is another one from Billy Collins that has been on my mind of late. To the degree that it can be. Maybe you can relate.

Forgetfulness

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion,
the entire novel,
which suddenly becomes one you
have never read,
never even heard of.

as if one by one, the memories you
used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern
hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there
are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of
the nine Muses goodbye,
and watched the quadratic equation
pack its bag,
and even now, as you memorize the
order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a
state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of
Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to
remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure
corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark
mythological river
whose name begins with an 'L" as far
as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion
where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim
and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of
the night
to look up the date of a famous battle
in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window
seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to
know by heart.

---Billy Collins

The black dog

Here we are, over the threshold of a new year, full of hope, expectation, and fear if we're honest, about what the coming year will bring to us individually and collectively. This is a time of uncertainty. Although we can act with the best information and good intentions, we cannot predict the outcomes, and the reality of our interdependence and shared fate, so easy to ignore in high, bright times, is apparent. You know how it is, when we succeed, we often credit our individual talent or foresight or hard work, and forget the shoulders we stand upon. Failure on the other hand, belongs to everyone and no one. 

I’ve been thinking about a story that Michael Meade shared at the Bioneers conference (and which also appears in his latest book- see left sidebar) about the Old Woman who weaves the world like a garment, and her black dog. The Old Woman weaves the world with skill and patience, but every now and then she has to set her project aside and go stir the cauldron that holds the seeds of the earth. On one of her trips to the cauldron, when the garment is all but done, the black dog tugs on a loose thread and ruins the whole thing. Damn the dog, right? But it’s her dog, there in the room with her always, and she simply picks up the thread and begins again. The dog is essential to the process, because if the Old Woman ever did finish, ever did stop weaving her beautiful, perfect garment, the world would end. The story reminds us that the world is made, that creation and destruction can’t be separated, and that this cycle is the nature or essential action of the cosmos. And it suggests that the world hinges on or hangs by a (loose) thread.

Feels precarious, like our current situation. Meade calls these "black dog days." But recall that bit about Ariadne’s thread last month, the Greek word for thread being klew, or “clue.” The raw materials are around us. We need to watch for the signs, and maybe feel our way in the darkness for a time.

Halley's Comet

When in your middle years                                                                                        
The great comet comes again
Remember me, a child,
Awake in the summer night,
Standing in my crib and
Watching that long-haired star
So many years ago.
Go out in the dark and see
Its plume over water
Dribbling on the liquid night,
And think that life and glory
Flickered on the rushing
Bloodstream for me once, and for
All who have gone before me,
Vessels of the billion-year-long
River that flows now in your veins.

---Kenneth Rexroth

Rexroth was a key participant in the San Francisco Renaissance and promoted the work of many other poets, including several whose work I've posted here--Ginsberg, Gary Snyder, and Denise Levertov. He organized the legendary Six Gallery reading, which included the first public reading of Allen Ginsberg's "Howl." Rexroth was a mentor for the Beat writers and poets (Keroauc includes him in The Dharma Bums). His own work was influenced by Asian poetry and his translations of Japanese and Chinese texts introduced Western writers to new forms and a different style of consciousness.