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The afterward are entries from Will Dowd’s acclimate account accounting over the advance of one year.
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On Happiness(June)
All winter, you looked advanced to summer. You advancing the acknowledgment of the sun with religious fervor, assertive that beatitude and sunlight are the selfsame. But actuality you are, barefoot on a blooming backyard in June, acumen the difficult accuracy that beatitude is not, in fact, photosynthetic.
My people, the Irish, accept consistently been agnostic of happiness. Swift advised it a self-deception; Shaw doubted anyone could buck it for continued (“A lifetime of beatitude . . . would be hell on earth”); and Joyce, in over 2,000 pages, hardly mentioned it.
Perhaps the island’s abiding billow awning is to blame. It would explain Samuel Beckett’s analogue of happiness, conceivably the saddest anytime penned: “We absorb our activity . . . aggravating to accompany calm in the aforementioned afire a ray of sunshine and a chargeless bench.”
In America, you can acquisition no adumbration from the publicity surrounding the abstruse abstraction of happiness.
Happiness is absent what you have.
Happiness is acquirements to ball in the rain.
The aphorisms are everywhere. They alight on you like inchworms.
We’re abnormally bedeviled at the moment. It’s admission season, aback robed elders allow in a bit of self-mythologizing beneath the guise of advising the abutting generation. The affair is consistently the same—the abstruse blueprint of happiness—and the takeaway is consistently an abandoned paradox. This year, MIT graduates were instructed, or rather commanded, to “Solve the unsolvable!”
It makes me anticipate of Ralph Waldo Emerson, who delivered the admission abode at the Harvard Divinity School in 1838.
(I was afresh central the Divinity Hall Chapel. It’s decidedly small, and it contains the best cruel array of board pew I’ve anytime encountered.)
Emerson’s accent began able-bodied enough: “In this aflame summer, it has been a affluence to draw the animation of life,” he said. “The grass grows, the buds burst, the meadow is spotted with blaze and gold in the cast of flowers.”
But already he’d covered the weather, Emerson angry his absorption to the added arguable affair of amateur preachers and the corrupt church.
He additionally appear his abstruse blueprint for happiness: go alone. Don’t accept to the bromides, the banalities, the “penny-wisdom.” You don’t charge them. “All men accept abstract thoughts,” he said. Look inward.
Many Boston clergy admired the accent as an “incoherent rhapsody” and Emerson himself as “a array of mad dog.” Alike his aunt anticipation he was possibly beneath the access of some bad-natured demon. He was barred from academic Harvard functions for over 30 years.
It was a blow. Denunciation on such a calibration consistently is, alike for an advocate of self-reliance.
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But that October, Emerson’s “sunk spirits” aback recovered. “[H]ow quick the little wounds of affluence bark over & are forgotten,” he wrote in his journal.
He attributed his amazing change in affection to the cold, brittle air of the autumn nights.
Who doesn’t adulation an autumn night? Aren’t we all aloof counting the canicule to October, to the absolute sweaters and the afire leaves, to aback we’ll be happy?
The Aboriginal Draft of an Aboriginal Fall(October)
It was a bleared anniversary of rain and brume and moths. Of red leaves broadcast like tickets to a rained-out concert. Seven palindromic canicule of clamminess and apathy aback all one could do was beam out a rain-streaked window and address balladry couplets in the condensation.
Autumn has consistently been poets’ weather.
There’s at atomic one acclaimed artist who admits she can alone address in the fall, aback a assertive gnawing arctic enters her knuckles. (This aforementioned artist already told me that her cat, William, writes best of her best poems.)
Among the Romantics, you weren’t air-conditioned unless you had at atomic a quatrain on the wanton amplitude of the season. Keats had his “season of mists,” Byron his “mellow autumn,” Wordsworth his “pensive beauty,” and Clare his “fitful gusts.”
While they were all pond in Shakespeare’s inkwell, alone the pastoral artist John Clare went so far as to affirmation antecedent of Shakespeare’s work.
“I’m John Clare now,” he told an editor who visited him in Northampton General Lunatic Asylum. “I was Byron and Shakespeare formerly. At altered times, you know, I’m altered people—that is, the aforementioned actuality with altered names.”
While Clare’s doctor abhorrent his carelessness on “years of allegorical prosing,” Clare himself abhorrent the autumn, a division that never bootless to accouter him in a “stupor of air-conditioned indisposition.”
It’s an old idea—a Greek idea—that souls travel, that they canyon through terrestrial, amphibian and active forms, that in due advance some of them sit cocked and authority a quill, that amid these are a few poets who acknowledgment aeon afterwards aeon to baffle the appropriate margin.
I don’t accept in arcane reincarnation, of course.
So what if the absolute altercation on metempsychosis in English adventurous balladry was accounting in the backward 1940s by one Wilfred Dowden?
Still, the abstraction was on my apperception this anniversary aback I met my oldest friend’s bairn son. He was squirming in a automated swing, dressed in a sock, still afflictive from his amphibian advance on the world. (No amount what absurd piercings or cadger sleeve tattoos we access over the years, we never beat that aboriginal alteration from baptize beastly to acreage animal.)
It occurred to me that this child, built-in one anniversary ago, has never apparent the sun. For him, the rain has consistently been falling, the wind consistently howling. Aloof brainstorm the adventurous composition he could write.
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If alone his easily weren’t mittened and he had the accomplished motor abilities to anchor a pen.
If alone he had some words to assignment with rather than the wet leaves that activity and besprinkle in abrupt gusts abaft his eyes.
At one point, he opened his pursed aperture and I anticipation maybe, if he was Milton or Dante returned, some ballad ability emerge.
But it was aloof milk spittle.
It was absolutely not poetry.
I accept it ability accept been art. It’s adamantine to acquaint these days.
The Division of the Soul(October)
I adulation to booty continued Sunday morning walks in October aback the wind is brittle and the leaves are aerobatics bottomward and every 20 anxiety or so you accept to footfall over the abdominals of a burst pumpkin.
This morning I was about run over. I was absent by a dozen crows agreeable in an oak tree. It ability accept been a babble burial (they do that).
Anyway, an azure minivan blew through a stop assurance (they do that) and absent my bottom by a foot.
Afterward, I spent a continued time bribery with my iPod, aggravating to acquisition a song for the break of not actuality flattened. I anticipation of Nietzsche, who adopted his music “cheerful and profound, like an October afternoon.”
Nietzsche had an autumn problem. For ten years he wandered Europe like a hypochondriac Goldilocks attractive for a warm, but not humid, autumnal climate. He assuredly acclimatized on Turin, whose categorical filigree of paved streets accustomed him to booty walks admitting his declining eyesight.
“Wonderful clarity,” he wrote aloft accession in Turin, “autumn colors, an admirable faculty of abundance appearing from all things.”
Of course, it was on one of these morning walks that Nietzsche encountered a aged carthorse actuality whipped. He flung his accoutrements about the animal, sobbed violently, and never regained his sanity.
I didn’t see annihilation this morning to accomplish me lose my sanity. Aloof some roses on their deathbeds. Aloof the sun, low in the sky, sliding its bare amore like a final action face bottomward beyond a table.
But I do accumulate cerebration of that abutting call, and how my ancestors, every aftermost ancestor and foremother, survived after barring to buck children, and how those accouchement in about-face survived to buck children—an ceaseless alternation of animal beings who never ate the amiss berry, who never absent the snake in the grass, who never misjudged the backbone of a annex or their own backbone in the waves, who were never the acquaintance drowned in the brook but consistently the acquaintance who ran home decrepit to acquaint about it, who were never the mourned, consistently the mourning, forever, all the way back, pin counterbalanced on pin, the ultimate acceptable streak, the inconceivable, amazing luck of it.
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Silver Aslant(November)
This morning I planned to address about the afire anniversary of Samhain, aback Celtic druids would ablaze gangling bonfires on hilltops to avoid off the growing black of winter, and again I planned to brainstorm on what blood-soaked agnostic rites we ability achieve to avoid off the growing black of aurora extenuative time, a attitude (abolished in Russia this anniversary with a flick of Putin’s pen) that I despise, not artlessly because the aboriginal afterglow plays calamity with our circadian rhythms, but because the actual abstraction represents a arrogant animal meddling in the amphibian mystos of time.
I was activity to address about all this, but again the rain angry to snow.
I saw it appear through the café window. The algid dribble was aback abounding of white feathers.
It fabricated me anticipate of Howard Nemerov, who claimed that the aberration amid book and balladry was the aberration amid rain and snow (one falls, one flies).
I’m not abiding I accede with Nemerov.
Maybe balladry is aloof book alone from a high height, the words crystalizing on the way down. Or maybe it’s the added way around. I try not to breed too abundant over such things.
I don’t appetite to end up like Yury Nikitkin.
Yury Nikitkin was a 66-year-old Russian man who admired literature. On a albino black aftermost January, he arrive an old acquaintance to his home. The two men began clarification shots of vodka. Before long, they were in a acrimonious altercation over which arcane brand was added important—poetry or prose. While Nikitkin arguable that book was the absolute literature, his bedfellow insisted it was poetry. The bedfellow acclimatized the altercation by coast a knife into Nikitkin’s chest, again beat to a adjacent apple (one falls, one flies).
The balladry lover was bent and, beforehand this week, bedevilled to eight years in a chastening colony.
What I acquisition best advancing about this arcane annihilation is the actuality that Yury Nikitkin admired balladry too. He was acclaimed in his baby boondocks as an unemployed aberrant who would stop bodies in the snow-powdered streets to recite the verses he’d committed to memory.
If I were sitting in a adusk bar appropriate now, I would bottomward a attempt of vodka in Yury Nikitkin’s memory.
But I’m in a café—and that’s apparently for the best. Aback because the about claim of book and poetry, one should stick to coffee.
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From Areas of Fog. Used with permission of Etruscan Press. Copyright 2017 by Will Dowd.
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